Winter's Abyss
by robingal1
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Winter's Abyss  
Author: robingal1  
Pairing/characters: P/E/N  
Spoilers: none  
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves  
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.  
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

Rating: M

Not mine. Property of USA Network.

Her Majesty's lands were trapped deep within the heavy winter. Neal could no longer feel his feet, yet he struggled still to place one foot in front of the other. His breath came quickly, steaming the air trapped in the scarf wrapped around his face. Each breath was harder to draw. His grip tight on the pack he carried.

The strap had broken in his haste to exit the home of his latest victim. The strap had caught on a nail, ripping, and almost losing his precious treasures, silver.

All the silver Neal could lay hands on. He raided the kitchens of peasant and noble alike. He took it all. He had to. Kate needed it. His lovely Kate.

A visiting noble, Kramer, had quietly stolen Kate away from the crowd gathered in the town center. At first Neal thought she was delayed by the new bookstore or the minstrels, but as the night grew on, he began to search for her. None in the town had seen her for hours. He asked for a search party to form. Panic threatening to rise.

Kramer, the noble bastard, held the town off. Saying he had seen her near the town fountain. Barely remembering to bow hastily before leaving, Neal raced from the bight warmth of the town square.

Neal found her there, where the noble lord has said, leaning over the water's surface, pale, crying, and grasping her neck. Blood covered her, but the wound was closed.

Neal searched her for other wounds, frantic.

"Kate! Love, what happened? Are you hurt?"

Kate looked up then, tears streaming down her pale face, blue eyes gone, and black instead. "I- I was bitten. He just... it hurt. It hurt. And now it doesn't." Kate turned her head then, as if hearing something. Her eyes huge with fear.

"Kate?" Neal looked around, seeking what she feared. A few of the townspeople could be seen milling farther away, nearer to the festival.

"My love, if you have any mercy in you, kill me."

"What? Kate, what happened? Who did this to you?"

Kate rose from the ground, unsteady, walking towards the woods. Her voice took on a dream-like quality. "Who, you ask? Lord Kramer. He liked the way I smell." Her steps became surer; Neal was quick to stay with her, step for step, breath for breath.

"Kate, stop! Where are you going? Stop!" Neal was running now, his panting was loud in this dark winter night. The moon, though full, providing only enough light to see little more than Kate's fast escaping form.

Her dress could be heard tearing. Kate's cries becoming harsher. She tripped and curled into herself.

Neal falling near her. His hand shaking, he reached out for his love. "Ka-"

A sound came from her then. A fierce roar of grief and anger filled the air. Her form was ripped from her and replaced with a massive beast. Her eyes bore into Neal, freezing him with fear and sorrow.

Kate lifted her head and roared again. The roar of a hunter proudly claiming her kill.

Neal couldn't speak; his love was bitten; his love was gone from him; his love was cursed; his love was a werewolf.

Kate opened her jaws, teeth catching the light from the moon.

"Oh, Kate..."

She stopped at the sound of his voice. Her ears flattening against her head.

"You'll be fine, love. You haven't spilled any blood. And the bastard sire is just there in the town. I'll kill him, Kate. I'll kill him! And you and I can be married." He smiled as he said it. Kate always said his smile could flirt the stars from the sky. Neal watched her, held his hand out to her, beckoning her to trust him. Smiling until it hurt.

They stayed like that, frozen in uncertainty. Kate's ears began to lift, her stance began to loosen...

When a terrifying roar raced though the valley. A claim on Kate's soul. A call she couldn't resist. Her new master must have escaped the town's attention and began his hunt.

Kate turned and escaped Neal's reach.

"No! Kate! No! You can't! If you go..."

Kate raced away faster than Neal could run. He ran anyway. He ran long after he lost her trail.

He was lost. Lost without his Kate. Lost away from the town. Lost in the deepest darkness of the night woods.

Before he collapsed, he heard a soft growl just behind him. The snow was deep here, higher than Neal's face as it cushioned his fall. His heart beating too harshly, his eyes too heavy, he fought to keep them open, and his skin cold against the melting snow.

A spot of night moved toward him. First a shape, then a form of black fur and teeth. The growl came again. Low and next to his ear, blowing hot and fetid breath against his neck.

A voice no human could make broke the silence. "Foolish little lover." The words barely discernible in the low growl. "She is mine now. I will have my fun. And she will enjoy it, mindless and hungry. She will never know guilt or shame, nor the next sunrise.

"These lands have been mine before you were a spark in your mother's eye; they will be mine long after your meaningless death." A noise like warped laughter moved away from Neal and back into the night.

"No." Neal's voice barely made it to his ears.

"Foolish little lover." And the voice was gone. Kate was gone. Neal was alone.

His eyes closed. Kate died that night.

Neal adjusted his grip on the bundle. The silver inside rattling. "Kate." Tears came unbidden to his eyes. He angrily wiped them away before they could fall.

"I robbed every house, Kate. All of them. The whole town. They didn't help us. I told them. What happened, when I made it back. But they just spat on me! Murders! Bastards!" Neal walked on, away from the town, toward the horse he'd left outside the town.

He leaned against a nearby tree, to catch his breath. He hadn't been eating, too sick to hold much down. But the thoughts of revenge fueled him forward. He shoved off the tree and made his way to the blacksmith's horse. "Many of these pieces must be inherited. I'll melt it down, Kate. I'll form them into beautiful blades. I'll shove them into his heart, Kate! I'll kill him, love."

The horse was just over the next rise. He could hear it whinnying. He would ride his stolen mount, he would make blades unlike any other, he'd kill Kram-

Why was the horse making so much noise? Neal hid the pack under a fallen tree and covered it with snow. His fingers raw and numb, the snow white against his red hands.

He crawled the rest of the way on his stomach, quietly looking over the slope to the horse. The local Civil Guards trying to calm the town's largest horse. A horse that would've carried Neal and his silver out of this damned town and through the falling snow.

The Guards thought that after refusing him justice, that they would then lay a trap for him? No. Those greedy, lazy, murders-by-association could wait until the Queen's Stag comes for their worthless souls. Neal had no interest in going anywhere with them. He crept back to his silver, buried himself quietly under the fallen tree, and waited until sundown. He would escape into the night, him and his cold silver.

Peter walked through his mountaintop village. It was huge, for a village. But what it lacked in grand balls and high walled gates, it made up for in higher learning and skilled healers. The village had been founded on the healing powers of the springs that came from deep within the mountain.

Peter was proud of his life, his village, his fellow villagers. People came from all over the Queen's land to learn at the university, or to be healed in one of the pools in the mountain. There were signs as far away as the Queendom itself showing direction to the York of Newness.

Unfortunately, some of these people saw his villagers as easy victims, choosing greed over righteousness. It was Peter's job, as Captain of the Civil Enforcers, to seek justice and maintain the peace. Most days, it was just throwing a drunkard into the sobering arms of the river, keeping peace with the visiting camp of orks, or keeping the small band of raiders from ascending the mountaintop.

In truth, his job was often defined as simple delegation to his team. His Sergeant, Diana, was a better hand at the cross bow than any he had ever seen. If asked, he would easily state his belief that the raiders feared Diana far more than any traps his Civil Enforcers had set.

His other closest team member was Clinton, soon to be a Sergeant as well. A man of quiet strength and friendly laughter, he had come to the village seeking a new start after servicing in Her Majesty's Navy. His addition had been unexpected, but Clinton had quickly proven himself and was welcome in many of the local taverns. And by many of the maidens who worked there.

Peter walked passed shoppes and clothiers. A smile hovering on his lips as he patrolled passed a small gallery. He had met his Elizabeth, his love, his wife, his greatest joy, at that small gallery. She was there to meet with her friends, when a robbery occurred. After Peter assured the patrons of their safety, El used a simple tracking spell and lead Peter right to the robber. He asked for her hand that night.

Her laughter set his heart to flight. Her calm strength stole the breath from his chest. And her cunning burst from her eyes, freezing his thoughts in his head.

She made him court her for a year. Even her parents visited. Peter hunted and prepared the largest boar he could find.

As the High Priestess of the Sacred Springs, the wedding was monstrous and the most daunting thing he'd ever endured. But her smile melted him into the summoning circle and they were wed.

Peter was torn from his reminiscing as Clinton came to fetch him. He had obviously ran. Something needed his attention. They both ran through the cobbled streets, then getting further from the village proper, the cobbles turned to a wide dirt road set with deep ruts from years of carts. Near the edge of the valley, at the base of the mountain, a small crowd gathered. Diana was at the center, calmly enforcing the crowd to back away from the center.

Peter followed Clinton into the throng of onlookers.

"Diana." Peter nodded to her in greeting and assumed command. Clinton went to the edges of the trees, watching and guarding. It was protocol and didn't need to be said. He had a damn good team.

"Peter." Diana moved aside to reveal El leaning over a hooded figure. His boots were stained with mud, his coat was dirt-stained and torn. Wherever this man was from, he had come on foot in the bitter and dangerous winter.

El's basket of herbs and sundries lay beside her. She must have been called away from her work, as well.

"Peter, he's dying." El said with the calm brought on my too many losses. Not all who came to be healed lived. Queen's Tit, most of them died on the way. El knew the dying when she saw them.

"Good! The fool tried to rob me!" A voice in the crowd called.

"Ma'am? What happened here?" A woman in riding leathers, tall and beautiful, with hair like fire, strode forward carrying a riding crop. There was blood on it. "That man tried to steal my Van Gogh. He's a prize horse, worth three bars of gold. This man tried to steal him!"

Diana began dispersing the crowd. They knew better than to stay and risk her ire.

A weak cough and a groan came from the man on the ground. "El?"

"He's dying, but he can be saved. As a Priestess, I have to try." El knew she was only saving him to release him into the mercy of the village Judges. But she had sworn to the Goddess to be brave and to care for others as long as she lived.

"Diana, find a cart and horse-"

The fire woman's shoulders became tense at this.

"Not Sara's three bars horse. You are Sara, yes? You're always welcomed here as one of Her Majesty's best Bounty Hunters."

The woman raised an elegant brow. "The stories I heard said that York of Newness was home to the best Civil Enforcers – after those in the Queendom, of course- they seem to be well founded." Sara smirked. "Perhaps I'll finish my business and winter here after all.

"And you must be Elizabeth, the High Priestess? A pleasure." A true small smile this time. "I'll be staying at the Plaza Inn." With that, she leapt atop her three bar horse and rode off.

Diana and Clinton returned with a cart, but no horse. "I'm sorry, Peter." Clinton looked around at the few retreating villagers. "I couldn't find anyone willing to part with their horse."

"It's fine." Peter sighed. Walking over to his wife and the stranger. El had moved him unto his back. A scarf had been wrapped poorly around his hands, trying to stave off frostbite. His face had an unkempt beard and was gaunt with starvation. He stank. His breathing was hitching. Tears were streaming from the corners of his eyes into the ground beneath him. He had a death grip on an overstuffed and heavy pack.

"He doesn't seem to have any broken bones or internal wounds that I can immediately sense. It should be safe to move him."

Peter moved closer to the mountain, placing a hand on one of the nearby boulders. He drew a quick well-practiced sigil into the dirt, cut his finger against his tooth, using the blood to activate the sigil. "Satchmo!" Peter summoned the mountain spirit with such ease, like a master calling a dog to heel.

Within seconds, the ground shook and a demon spirit appeared in a flash of light. Over the years he had taken on the form of a large yellow dog. Even after all these years, the sight still caused gasps from his friends.

Satchmo, the mountain spirit, had existed here far longer than any human. When Peter had first seen him, the spirit was following El home, like a towering dog following its master home. He had asked El how she called such a beast. She shrugged, as if it had never occurred to her that such power would have been denied her. "I saw him, I gave him a name, he followed me home. He is the mountain spirit. He protects all of us. But his home is deep in the mountain. My sacred springs are in the mountains. We decided to protect them together." El smiled. "He likes to play and run. He likes when I sing. I named him Satchmo."

Satchmo came only when he chose to, only to those he chose to hear. Peter made sure that Satchmo had a large space for the beastly figure near the large hearth in his and El's home. Satchmo often came when he and El summoned. Especially when they had bacon to offer.

It was humbling to be able to call forth such a creature of old and vast power.

"Satchmo, we need help to carry this man to the springs. We have a cart, but no way to carry it." Satchmo, smarter than any reckoning, opened his maw to a friendly doggie grin, tongue hanging from the side. "Please, spirit. This man will die without your help."

Satchmo went to the man, Clinton and El having placed him in the cart. He sniffed the man from head to foot. The spirit lingered on the man's chest. The spirit's head tilted as a dog's would, as though confused and waiting. Finally, Satchmo took another more lingering search of the dying man.

A short unearthly bark from the demon and the man groaned again.

Diana and Clinton bowed their heads to the spirit, the demon hound of their mountaintop home, and saluted both El and Peter as they left back to their jobs.

Satchmo moved to the front of the cart; without any hitching, the spirit pulled the cart forward, toward Peter and El's home. One of the deepest and strongest springs was directly center in their home. Just near to their kitchen hearth, in fact.

No one but the most gravely injured or El and himself ever went into that most private of springs. The spirit's path went true and fast. His paws dug into the gravel gaining more speed.

Peter looked to El, but she didn't seem to know any more than him.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been hours since having brought the stranger into their home. El had removed the man's clothes without embarrassment. Too many years of healing had divorced her from such shyness.

Peter was outside bringing in more wood for the fire that they would obviously be needing this night. Some nights she had to remind herself, it was a blessing to be so deep in the mountain. Windows where high in the cavernous walls, glassed over by the last Goddess Follower. El had inherited this "humble home" from her predecessor, High Priest Hughes. He chose her from the rest of the "probies".

But now that darkness was falling, the weak sunlight waned and the fire and candles would be needed until the sick man could be safely moved to the cot that Satchmo had curled near.

"It would seem, stranger, that you've made at least one friend today." El gave a tight smile to the man she cradled in her arms. She had held his head above water since he had been placed here.

Normally, she would have called the sprites of the water and earth and air to help, but they came immediately, as if they had been waiting. Sometimes, even the Goddess herself would send a small angel to assist in the healing of an innocent, a birthing mother, or a brave fighter.

But this time, as soon as the stranger was emerged in the water, the surface glowed faintly green, like the fresh spring leaves. The rocks gave off a heat that almost burned like a summer wind. The resulting steam made El's hair stick to her neck.

Peter returned, adding more wood to the fire. El understood that he was likely cold, but she was grateful that he had left the door open to return with another load.

The chill bumps rising on her naked shoulders were welcome.

"Any change?" Her husband asked. His eyes worried. His voice calm. A man born to take action, but content to wait, to settle into the wait, like the greatest of hunters. His brown eyes held the steady strength of the earth. Such a giving man. El felt her lips smile of their own accord. The man was a quiet storm. So subtle, so terrifying. She loved and trusted him more than any vow to her Goddess.

"Not much. His breath is slowed, and his fever is lowered, but most importantly, he smells much improved."

They shared a smile at that.

"You have been there since this afternoon, that's not usual. I think it's safe to say that even you have never seen this. Even Satchmo seems unsettled. I think that you need a break."

El opened her mouth to differ, but Peter spoke first, removing his clothing as El had removed hers. "You need food. You need rest. And as you have not called for any of your... probies, I am the only one at your disposable. Up!"

He kissed her then. Lightly, at first. Then deeper. He was afraid. And if he couldn't find answers to the stranger in their home, then he went to his next obtainable goal: protecting those he cared about. El kissed him back.

She accepted Peter's hand to assist her from the pool in one hand, and supported the stranger's head above the water with the other. Peter replaced her, shocked at the unexpected temperature of the spring. And like any half-competent healer, he checked for heartbeat, breathing, and if the attending sprites were presently working, rather than becoming distracted with any of the number of things that could entertain a sprite.

El quickly found the robe Peter had left warming near the fire. She prepared herself a meal. And not a light one. It was going to be a long night and likely a longer morning.

Neal came to slowly. His eyes too heavy to open. His head hurt miserably. His lungs burned with each breath. He tried to move and found it past his ability.

Taking a deep breath was an instantaneous mistake. A pain blossomed from his chest. He hadn't the strength to lift himself to cough the fluid from his lungs.

Hands supported him suddenly. The shock of it added to his cough. Deep choking spasms that lasted longer than he could endure without those mystery hands.

He finally drew in a breath deep enough to alleviate the tightness in his chest. He drew several, like a drowning victim, gasping and coughing.

The hands never withdrew. They held him tighter against a warm body. "Who?" His throat hurt to say anything more.

"Welcome back, stranger. This is blessed water, you need to drink some. Then you can go back to sleep." A kind voice, deep, male.

A vessel was held to his lips. He drank deeply, the water cool against the burning of his throat.

He slipped back into the darkness from before. Cursing his weak body.

The stranger awoke many times, though never aware of his surroundings. His eyes were sunken and his lips still chapped. His feet were blistered, but not bitten with frost. His fingers were still red and likely will take some time in healing, but after a few more submerges, they would likely be left undamaged. His ribs could be counted easily. His whole body gaunt and hollow. Frighteningly so. He slept uneasily and cried out often, haunted and hurting.

El had reviewed every spell and enchantment she knew, but nothing seemed be working. Or, at least, not with the normal reaction she had come to expect from her springs.

The sleeping man lying on her chest floated on in oblivion. Satchmo had not left the cavern. Peter was sleeping on the unused cot next to the fire.

El cradled the man's hands, sending the water sprites to work at healing the swelling. She sent air sprites into the man's lungs. The earth sprites, however, seemed unable to touch the man. They came to her call, but sat by the spring's pool side.

Nothing the truly unworthy or Cursed would turn away an earth sprite. But they were not turned away; they were wary instead, watching.

Peter had gone through the man's pack. A few supplies, not enough to make it across the pass in deep snow, and many, many pieces of silver. Cutlery of all kinds, frames without the pictures, and a large door knocker was all there was. Perhaps Bounty Hunter Sara had been right, he was a thief.

But the Goddess seemed interest in him; the earth sprites seems interested; even Satchmo, one of the oldest living spirits, hadn't left their home.

El was worried what she was inviting into her and her husband's home and life.

Peter's duty was to justice. Even if this man should live, he would likely be hung at the end of a rope at his neck. She grieved for her husband. He resented when justice was circumvented for any cause; the village Judges were no ward against injustice. But still, what else could this man be if not a thief?

Neal felt awful. His head pounded in agony with every heartbeat. His lungs burned. His eyes were dry, no matter how many times he blinked.

He slowly looked around at his surroundings. At first, he thought a cave, but the mold smell wasn't present. Instead, he saw a series of bright, sun drenched windows high in the cavern wall, then a well-loved kitchen beneath that, and an unlocked thick wooden door next to that. He turned his head to see more, but instead of more home, he saw a gigantic hound staring directly at him.

Neal startled easily and gasped in horror. Which set his lungs on fire. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't stay here. He had to get away. He turned his body, never taking his eyes from the beast, and collapsed as soon as his feet his the floor. The beast lumbered toward him.

Goddess, no! His chest burned, his sight was wavering, and still the beast was coming for him. He turned to crawl away.

But the beast lifted him by the back of his shirt, like a mother bitch would her pups. He was lifted off the ground and carried to a pool of water. The demon beast dropped him gently into the water.

Instantly his breathing improved. His legs were unable to hold him in the deep pool; he leaned over the edge. The water was warm, the air easier to draw with each try.

The beast sat at the side near him. Sniffing him. Finally, pulling away after repeatedly licking him over his fast beating heart.

Neal cautiously lifted his hand to touch the dog-shaped beast. "He-hello, spirit. Thank... you." Neal was suddenly reminded of a night not far removed from him. Kate sitting next to him, his hand held out.

He was lost in the memory. Tears formed and fell. His Kate...

A sharp otherworldly bark brought him back to himself. Shaking him to his bones. The beast, like a master's hound, was nosing his hand, demanding to be pet. Neal's shaking hands rubbed the demon hound's fur. It was warm and soft, not unlike any winter-coated beast.

"Satchmo, what was-" A woman's voice entered the tentative peace Neal had just found. She was beautiful. The Goddess is her glory on earth. Of course the demon would answer to her. She was laughter and thunder incarnate.

"You're awake." She smiled at him. "And, Goddess! You're petting him! Fool, he's a mountain spirit, he'll burn the flesh from your... your... Goddess, you're petting him."

"Hon! I heard Satchmo! Are you okay? What's-" A man entered from the door Neal saw earlier. His shoulders wide and welcoming. His eyes kind and his stance defiant.

But Neal saw; he had a small embroidered shield on his scabbard. Civil Enforcer. Neal was in the home of a bastard and a witch, who somehow spelled a demon spirit!

Neal froze. Heart beating against his ribs, making him dizzy.

"You're petting a demon spirit?" The Enforcer moved towards him. Neal tensed, flinging himself against the wall farthest from this bastard with a sword. "Sir, you were found at the bottom of our village. You were dying. My wife saved you." The man held out his hands, speaking slowly, like Neal was some frightened doe, likely to flee. If only he could!

"Well, my husband helped." The witch smiled. Neal felt around for a weapon, anything. The rocks were too heavy for his arms to lift, and his fingers were slow to hear his commands; he couldn't even feel the rocks beneath his fingers.

"We don't mean you any harm. We've been working for nearly two days to keep you from dying, in fact." The man held out his hands closer to Neal.

Neal meant to refuse them, but his small burst of strength left him, and the man caught him. Saving him from drowning. Neal thrashed weakly. Losing the fight before it began.

Panting, humiliated, and frightened, Neal was drawn from the warm spring and unto the cold floor. The witch quickly stripped him of his sodden clothing and the Enforcer brought him the blankets from the cot he was in earlier. The beast sniffed him again, staying over his chest, licking him at his heart, and retreating to a place obviously meant for him near the large hearth.

"My name is High Priestess Elizabeth. I am the Mother Superior of this Holy Mountain. And you, stranger, are being rude to me. To my husband. In our home." Thunder could be heard in her voice, even the deaf would know that threat.

Neal swallowed, shivered, and looked frantically from the Priestess to the Enforcer.

The Enforcer knelt down next to Neal. He sighed heavily. "My name is Peter. I am the Captain of the Civil Enforcers of this mountaintop village, York of the Newness. And you, stranger, are being rude to me. To my wife. In our home." Where Elizabeth held thunder, Peter weld a cleansing fire. Neal had no chance to stand against them.

Neal straightened his back and smiled as brightly as possible; in a voice scratched and small, he introduced himself. "My name is Neal. I am the Master Artist of the Saint of Louis. I- I don't mean to be rude." Where Elizabeth and Peter held power in their voices, Neal couldn't go more than three sentences without becoming winded. His pride ached,a deep cut against his self worth.

Peter helped him to his feet, which gave out almost immediately, and then carried him to the cot near the fire. The demon spirit... snuggled closer. Giving Neal as much heat as the fire.

Peter turned to his wife. "What happened?"

"I left to piss; Satchmo barked; I came in only a span before you."

Neal, unable to sit up any longer, leaned against Satchmo, seeking his soft fur and blissful warmth. "How did I get here? I don't remember."

They both looked down at him, eyes wide in shock or horror, as Satchmo curled around Neal.

"You were trying to steal a horse from a very daunting woman. She beat you. Probably didn't take too many hits. My Enforcer was called. And, until this matter is solved, you are under arrest."

Neal was a careful to keep his face neutral. "Arrest? Huh. It suppose that's to be exp- Where's my pack! I had a pack! Where is it!" Neal's lungs were tightening again. He struggled to sit up. "My pack!"

Elizabeth gestured to his opened pack at the base of the cot.

Peter again knelt to be face level with Neal. "Did you steal those, Master Artist?"

Neal didn't answer. He was getting dizzy.

A vessel was placed at his lips. He drank greedily at the cool water. "Blessed?" He looked to Elizabeth, his clumsy, numb hands reaching up to steer the water back to his lips.

"Yes."

"Neal, you've been very sick. A person does not weaken that quickly unless forced into the cold. Your pack holds nothing to protect you, nor anything beyond the small remains of some crackers. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Without warning, a small burst of laughter erupted from Neal. After a short span, he sobered quickly. Then sighed, feckless of the consequences to his lungs. "I am in more trouble than the Goddess herself could help." The profane sacrilege escaping his lips before the High Priestess went by unnoticed. His eyes were growing heavy. Sleep was claiming him, growing stronger against his will. "I have no ill against you, Enforcer Peter... but I'm on the mend. When I can, I will... will escape your arrest, and I will be on my way."

An uneasy quiet filled the cavernous home. It lasted long and the cold reached into Neal's bones.

Elizabeth drew the vessel back. "Is it Kate?"

Neal's eyes flew open. He looked upon her with such intensity, Peter felt his hand going toward his sword. In a haggard voice, louder than at any other time, he demanded, "What do you know of Kate, Priestess?"

Undisturbed by his anger, Elizabeth lifted her brow, deciding to answer. "You call out to her. You've done so for two days now. The earth spirits won't touch you. You're grieving is too strong. They can't touch what won't settle." She said it to get a reaction. She was trying to push Neal to reveal himself.

"My grief is my own. The sprites can go tend to the flowers of the young." Neal stared, hard, at Elizabeth.

Until his body betrayed him. His eyes closed against his will. Neal strained against the darkness, but just like that night once before, the darkness found him and kept him captive.


	3. Chapter 3

The summons from the village Judges came soon after. Peter accepted the writ from the youth, so eager to serve, unaware of the evils of the world. Peter gave the youth a full round of bread and sent her on her way. The young grow old fast.

He was in no forgiving mood. Queen's Tit! He was an unsettled storm and in need of an outlet. The man, Neal, was congested and snoring against a dozing Satchmo, who was also snoring. His wife was in bed, sleeping like the dead and well earned of her rest.

But Captain Peter, of the second best Civil Enforcers in the Queendom, was puttering about his home in an ill mood and of no use to anyone.

And with the summons set on the mantle, taunting him, calling him to face the mockery of justice for power. So rarely were the Judges called upon, that when they could smell even a drop of force, they attacked and devoured with the strength of wild wolves. Mangy wolves. With fleas. And maybe tooth rot. And watery bowels, too. Yes, Peter was ill tempered and in need of something constructive to do.

A knock came from the main door. Another writ?

"Captain? Peter?" Diana! Peter answered the door after looking over at the mountain spirit and Neal. Satchmo usually came immediately, to inspect whoever came to his human's home, but he only opened his eye a slit and lifted his ears. Apparently, Diana wasn't nearly as entertaining as his new human.

Peter opened the door and invited Diana in from the cold. She looked at the demon and Neal.

"Are? Is he? Snuggling?"

"Apparently. So, what news do you bring?" He guided her passed the sleeping pair and into the kitchen, offered her a mug of soup from the stove.

"Master Neal of the Saint of Louis matches the description you gave me. He's been missing for nearly a fortnight. His girlfriend, Kate, was bitten by a werewolf. Or, that's what witnesses are saying that Neal said. A werewolf hasn't been seen in that area for years. But, that would explain the sudden thefts."

"The silver?" Peter rubbed his face, scrubbing the weariness away, or tried to. "Ah, inherited silver, kills werewolves, makes sense.

"Why didn't any of his townspeople offer their silver?"

"Apparently, Master Neal was once a Master Thief. His townspeople have a long memory. After nearly four years of staying on the Goddess's Path, the townspeople still thought he had killed one of their own.

"Peter, it's not pretty. They never gave him a chance; they didn't believe him; they tried to arrest him. Did, actually. He escaped, stole the blacksmith's horse. The town Civil Guard thought that he had escaped. But once the silver went missing..."

"Wait, Civil Guard? Why the Guard?"

"Apparently, that's when this story becomes... complicated." Diana leaned her arms on the counter, staring into her soup. "There was a visiting noble. One of the Queen's Own. Neal accused the noble... Lord Kramer, of killing Kate. That's why the Guard."

"Kramer? But..."

"Yeah..."

Peter matched Diana's stance. His mentor, the man who lead him away from the books and toward seeking justice. Lord Kramer was always a hard man, distant, but never a murderer. Though, Peter hadn't seen him in years...

"Listen, Peter, I don't know how this is going to play out, but however you chose, Clinton and I are with you. We'll follow your lead." She finished her mug, pulled her coat tighter, and made her way to the door away from the kitchen and the two sleeping... friends.

She made her way down to the pathway that lead to Peter's house, when she heard him calling out for him. "Diana." She didn't like that tone. That tone often lead her into trouble. But still, this village had been a bit boring of late. That demon-spawned mind of hers was calling out for adventure; her mother would laugh if she knew, then take her backside to task. "You asked for this information using official channels, right?"

"Of course."

"Then likely Kramer will hear about it shortly; he'll be coming for a visit not long from today." Peter sighed, looked off into the distance, and then back to her, his eyes tired but sharp. "He's going to want assistance when he arrives. I need you to make sure that he picks you. He knows Clinton from the Navy. But you? You're young looking. Fresh. Eager to please. Be those things.

"Don't report to me anything he says to you. I don't want to hear about anything. We can only be seen together as teammates. ...But if you happen to be a devout Goddess Follower... Make sure that you attend every nightly confession. Confession is good for the soul, Diana."

She smirked. She didn't salute before she left; she bowed, like any eager Civil Enforcer would.

Peter saluted back, lazily, like any distant Captain would.

He watched her leave and then went back home. It was about lunch time. He would wake Neal, feed him more soup, and see if he were any more willing to speak about the loss of his home, his love, and Kramer.

Peter opened the door but felt a draft. The kitchen door was open. Neal was gone.

"It's g-going to... take longer than I thought, Kate." Neal trudged through the outskirts of the village. Now that he was cleaner, the people were more willing to greet him. He had smiled at everyone he came across. He had to. The yellow demon hound refused to leave him. He didn't want to frighten anyone. That might call the Enforcers. Instead of fear, though, they smiled in return. Apparently, Satchmo was welcome throughout the village.

And Neal could see why, with the spirit's lolling tongue and happy trot, who wouldn't?

Having made it passed the more populated areas, Neal was only a day's span from the base of the mountaintop. Once he reached the base, he'd steal a horse, though not that fire-haired woman's, take his silver, find Lord Kramer's manor, a forge, and kill the murdering bastard.

"I'm sorry, Kate. So sorry." Neal had to pause again. He leaned against Satchmo; needing his warmth against the cold of his broken heart. The boots from before were wearing thin, never intended for rough travel, but they fit, and he didn't have much farther to go, only one more town away...

"Sh-sh-should've stolen gloves." Neal struggled forward. He didn't have much time. The Enforcer, Peter, would likely discern his goal soon enough. But stealth was his trade. Always was. Stealth, theft, trickery, and all other manner of sins against the Goddess. He tried. "...tried so hard. I was good, Kate. For you. Never stole anything but a piece of your heart."

Neal lost track of himself for a span. The sun had set faster than he had planned. His fever must be back. He was pushing himself too fast from not nearly enough food and rest. But Peter had his writ. The Judges, never kind, never, never, never.

And that other one, Diana, she just spilled his sorry life's tale, like a tavern story!

But that Peter, with his kind hands and fair temperament, would serve Kramer... no! Fever be damned, Neal had to flee, fast, hard, yesterday.

The night stole what little heat his coat offered. Satchmo stayed by his side. But as his pack became heavier, his steps became less sure, dizziness coming in and out like the tide. Even the heat from the demon spirit became diminished as they reached the border stones between the mountain and the open valley. Satchmo grew smaller, his bright fur dulling.

"S-s-satchmo, you have to return. The mountaintop is your home. The people there... seem nice... enough.

"Thank you. You're the only friend I've had in ages. I've burned too many bridges to hold friends for very long." Tears threatened. He willed them away. His head hurt too much to start crying. "Go h-home, mountian spirit. Protect your mountaintop... find happiness."

Neal turned away then, Satchmo sitting, small and faint, at the base of the mountain, cried out a whine. Neal kept walking. The sun setting behind the tallest of the nearby mountains.

Neal wondered if each one had a spirit; if any were as noble as Satchmo.

The valley opened up before him. He wrapped his numb hands securely around his pack. The silver leached his misered warmth from him.

Darkness taunted him, beckoned him. Neal wasn't afraid. Kate was dead. He was dying. So long as Kramer died first, what could that darkness take from him?

One step after the next. Onward. One step, another, another...

El woke to a whole book written by her husband. Apparently, great deals of things had occurred in her brief slip from the world. However, while her husband had obviously left in a hurry, he left her with sure knowledge of where he was and a promise to return.

He wore her ring. A simple tracking spell engraved into it. They each had one.

Also, there was the matter of the writ on the mantle. As well, the pages of information he had left for her.

It seemed that Neal had escaped, that Diana was now a staunch Follower, and that Kramer, a noble she had met only once before, was on his way to visit. She was to offer to house him. An honor not easily turned away. In fact, one rarely offered at all. And, so long as Kramer was housed here, she could keep him trapped in ritual upon ritual; of course, this would trap her too. And she loathed such constraints, viscerally. But if her Peter asked it...

As punishment, she would invite her parents for the summer. ...Though, they would have to stay at the local inn. Or, maybe not for the whole summer.

Goddess! She simply must love Peter.

She found Satchmo by the hearth lonely and sad. El tried to bribe him away with bacon and song, but he seemed too depressed; his friend was gone. His Peter was gone. And, because she had told Satchmo of her plans regarding Kramer, this only seemed to sadden him more.

Finally, after cleaning her home, and arranging her home for guests, and puttering about in the hopes of distracting her mind, she finally collapsed next her oldest friend.

"Satchmo? May I touch you?" She asked before thinking. Surely, this must be one of the most disrespectful things she had ever offered to the spirit. She froze, horrified.

Satchmo, depressed and needing consoling, rolled into her lap. His head heavy, his eyes sorrowed. Without thinking, she pet the beast behind his ears and thread her fingers through the thick fur at his neck.

"You know, Satchmo, I think that I could have fallen in love with him, that Master Neal. He was beautifully made. His eyes, though... no one can truly speak to a dead man."

She began to find herself worried and lonely in her highly honored home with a mountain spirit resting in her lap. "I worry for Peter, though. He always loves before thinking. He will probably track that blue-eyed bedeviled man down, pour out his heart, to a man that can not hear words." El began crying, holding tighter to her oldest friend. "And if I didn't have to be here, fighting politics and murders, I can't say I wouldn't do the same."

Peter leaned against the fence leading to the stables, having found two horses fit for the journey ahead. He had already sent the youth from earlier to send for Clinton. After that, he stopped at the shoppe closest to the stables, and purchased any furs to keep him warm, any for his escapee, and enough food and protective charms for the journey to Washington of the DC. He and Neal would investigate Lord Kramer's manor, gather whatever information they'd be able, and take it back to the Judges. Shove the righteous actions of a hurt and desperate man against their watering maws. Force them back into hiding, hungry and grumbling.

If Kramer was guilty, he would be given to justice. If not, then Neal would be given to justice.

But as much as it hurt, as honored as Kramer was, he was far likelier the aggressor, having always had a taste for power and very little empathy for others.

While Neal... Peter sighed. Neal had the red-rimmed eyes of a heartbroken dying man. The earth sprites couldn't touch him. The spirit demon touched him. The spring reacted unlike ever before. Either Neal was innocent, or the Goddess and all of her creation had lost their mind.

But the Judges wouldn't easily believe things they hadn't seen, even at the word of the Captain of the Civil Enforcer and the High Priestess. The spirit of the mountaintop itself! But Judges were prone -highly- to seeking to keep the peace and quiet. And a noble lord needs to be kept a lord of his people, or what trouble would that cause?

Peter had a few answers to that. But none seemed interested. Politics soured his stomach.

Clinton entered the stables, dressed for a night on the town. A beautiful tavern maiden pleasantly awaiting for him to conclude his business.

"Good cover. If any of Kramer's men come ahead, they'd be looking for Enforcers, not a pair of lovers." Clinton stopped himself from saluting his Captain, a twitch of his hand. They both smiled.

His date, Diana, was keeping watch, eager to be about their assignment. Her basket likely held her crossbow, and not the moonlight picnic that would be expected.

"So, I'm to be the brash and distant Enforcer? I can do that; I can slick that dick. But I can't do long cons, Peter. I just don't have the experience."

"I'll be back before it comes to that. Neal is easy to track. He and I will look around Kramer's manor; be back before the fortnight.

"Look after my wife. She may kill Kramer. I don't want to visit my wife in jail."

"You're sure that your mentor has done this?"

"I... yes. It hurts." And it did. "But there's too much evidence, circumstantial though it is, to support Neal. And if Kramer is a werewolf, then he has to be put down."

"Goddess be with you, Peter." Clinton tapped the fence post twice in place of a salute. Peter didn't watch Clinton go back to his date.

He saddled and rode his horse, Taurus, and reined the second one, Bugsy.

Peter needn't follow the tracker spell El had placed on Neal. The trail was obvious. He was headed to the valley. He was walking straight into the heart of Kramer's power.

And that was were Peter steered his Taurus.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter found his escapee sleeping under a brush, the morning light casting harsh shadows against Neal's sallow skin.

Rather than wake him, Peter set about securing the horses, then starting a breakfast fire. He set a circle around the camp, blooded the circle, activating it, and felt the cold wind immediately blow over the small camp. Within a short span, the air felt warmer, the morning less harsh.

He looked again at Neal. His breathing seemed quiet, his dreams undisturbed. He slept on, exhausted.

Peter settled unto his warm roll near the fire, keeping watch against wild animals and orks.

It didn't take long for Neal to wake. His movements slow, his eyes red. Finally, still laying across the fire from him, he looked to Peter and stilled, a rabbit sensing a predator. "Captain of the Enforcers, Peter of the York of Newness." A breath, another. "How does the morning find you, sir?" He had not risen from his sorry state, he hadn't moved little more than his head.

"The morning finds me cold, Master Neal. But, unlike some unprepared travelers, I have brought charms, furs, and horses."

Neal looked around then, seeing the horses and the faint white glow from Peter's circle. He smiled, a private one, bitter.

"Before... before I was Master Neal, I would not have hesitated to steal an entire caravan just to venture from..." A breath. "...from one side of town to the other." His smile faded. "But my abilities, great they were! They are tarnished. Love tarnished me, Peter."

He shut his mouth, quickly with a snap. The red coloring his cheeks caused by more that just the cold.

Peter took pity on the man. He walked to Bugsy, fetched the second roll, and unfurled it next his own. He went to Neal then. Expecting a fight of pride, but the man accepted his help without comment. Peter carried the slight man and set him by the fire.

Peter sat, wrapping a supporting arm around the man's shoulders. Neal watched the oats boil, fruit floating to the top. Both men sat in quiet.

Peter served his escapee and himself. Neal's movements were slow and clumsy, his fingers weak.

"Curse me a fool! Wait here." Peter left to the horses, returned carrying a bundle meant for Neal. Gloves, charms stitched into the palms. Socks, thick and warm.

Peter removed Neal's boots, placed the socks, thick with wool and charm alike, and replaced the man's boots. He looked up to see the other man red faced, likely with some mixture of shame and gratitude. Not an unexpected reaction from anyone.

Next came the scarf, his own, made by his mother. An ugly thing, blue with sigils from his youth. It immediately brought out the blue of Neal's eyes.

Peter looked away. Shamed. Lusting for a man deep in grief and mad with it. Goddess pity her fools!

"I had expected you to steal a horse."

"That fire-haired woman was there." His voice scratched, but his pride seemed unoffended. Perhaps he admired the skill of the Bounty Hunter.

They both sat quietly after that, eating and warming themselves.

After ensuring his pack was still there, unmolested, Neal leaned into the solid warmth next to him. Peter seemed unoffended, wrapping his arm around his shoulders once again. A lending of himself, without pity, just support. Neal was asleep before the sun was two finger spans high.

He awoke quickly, shocked at the voices of Kate, the beast in the darkness, and his own guilt, choking him awake.

Peter was still there. A sentinel against the cold.

"You were calling to her again." Blunt. Said without any polite words to soften the blow. A direct sentinel, he was.

"I expect I will be calling out for her for the remainder of my life, Peter."

There was another meal. Followed by the bitter herbs his Aunt Ellen would shove down his young gullet when he was sick. The food and medicines sat heavily in his stomach.

But despite the rolling in his gut, he felt better, he realized. Less cold, his energy returned.

He stood carefully, cautious not to vomit. Peter, sensing another man's need to regain some portion of pride, left him to seek a private place to piss. Both of them knew Neal was presently too weak to get very far; Peter let him alone.

Neal inspected the horses upon his return. Both strong and reasonable creatures. The leathers were well worn, but cared for.

Peter spoke from the fire, extinguishing it, and clearing away the food. "The gray and black one is your ride, Bugsy. A bit too young for my tastes, too prone to wander. But faithful, in his own way."

"Peter..." Neal felt torn. His only option was to bide his time, wait for Peter to turn his back, steal the horse, and scorn Peter's generosity.

"I have orders from the Judges to show you before court. They sent a writ. A writ! They call me to fetch and carry, like some errand youth! Arrogant, selfish..." Peter paused, a shy and cunning smile blossoming. "The writ stated that I had a fortnight to gather the necessary case materials to present. However, nothing in the writ stated when I was to present you. Only that I was to do so."

Neal felt himself drawn in, leaning in, awaiting the vitality this man so easily offered.

"El will delay Lord Kramer in the York of Newness. He will be away from his manor, leaving us to inspect it, and then to return with whatever proofs we find to show to the court."

"Kramer is not at his manor? Kramer is back there? Peter-" Neal moved to his pack, ready to return.

"Neal." A hand on him, warm, strong, and so filled with unwanted concern.

"No! This is beyond you! I must end this!" He went to Bugsy, throwing his pack atop the startled horse, lashing it with quick and sure knots.

"Not like this. There is mercy in justice. There is vengeance in justice. What you seek is murder. Neal, you can't hope to kill a bear, what hope do you have against a feral werewolf?"

"I haven't any hope." Neal could feel the smile form, unbidden, grim, intolerable but still there, mocking his grief. "I don't have any hope at all. I have but one last duty.

"Kate was my hope... and now... Peter, she was nightly prayers. She was my soul. And Kramer stole her! He ripped my heart from out her chest!"

He turned, buried his face in the saddle, breathing the scent of the oiled leather. Willing his mind away, feeding the anger, scorning the grief.

Peter's presence left him. The silence at his back was unexpected. He turned, seeking him... he didn't know why. But needed him all the same.

He was stowing the gear, rolling the mats.

"I am an Enforcer, justice will always come first. There is victory, not a passing win, in justice. And that justice will bring you Kramer's life, if he is guilty.

"I will escort you to Washington of the DC. Or I will hamstring you, drag you there, and then drag you back. Now, get on the horse, Neal." His eyes hard, but not uncaring. Like the earth itself, solid and deep. Stubborn.

Neal could do stubborn. "As soon as you turn your back, Peter..."

He took the roll Peter handed him, stowed it, and mounted the horse.

Peter broke the circle, the wind found them, like a sharp blade of cold and wet against their exposed flesh.

Peter adjusted his scarf around his face. Neal tied his around his head, protecting his ears, he needed a hat.

Peter lead the way, Bugsy's reins tied on Taurus's saddle horn, leading them toward the manor of Kramer, away from the murdering lord. Toward Peter's "justice".


	5. Chapter 5

It was a beautiful valley, wide, vast, and hidden in the snow. Washington of the DC, the heart of the Queendom, was a wonder of natural bounty and human-wrought wonders. Queen June's castle reached into the clouds, piercing them, surrounded by cherry blossom trees and meticulously kept lawns. Peter couldn't help the swell of pride, joy spreading on his face, making him feel like some pious youth.

Neal, atop his mount, seemed more interested in the throng of people, all politely fighting their way past the tall gate. Families, caravans, carts, even foot traffic.

Neal had been quiet the whole journey, not sullen, but sleeping in the saddle. Well, likely some bit sullen. His beard looked haggard, his body tired, but his smile... the most telling of all. Tight, bright, non-threatening. A smile that anyone could trust.

Neal was as stubborn as the waves, crashing against, angry, violent. But Peter was a long-suffering man. Beneath those chaosed waves was a stillness, silent and graceful.

"Come on, Neal. We need to find an inn near our noble's manor." He motioned the horses, maneuvering through the people. "We'll order a room, a bath, some clothes..."

Peter hadn't mention it, but Neal had worn the same clothes for days now.

"How are your hands? Are the charms working?"

Neal's smile never reached his eyes. "Like a charm, Peter."

Peter couldn't help but groan at the joke.

They rode in peace. Peter, experienced with the twisting roads, knew the way toward the noble's home. Border stones lined the road. Leading them past theaters and museums, then schools and churches, until the path lead them to a large open farmland, rich and waiting for spring.

"Do you see that gate ahead?" Peter indicated with his chin, keeping his hands on the reins, he hadn't let go since their journey began. "My father built it. He built most of the gates here." Peter couldn't keep the pride from his voice. "A Master Mason of three generations."

"You didn't follow your family? You broke the generation?"

Peter could hear the smile in his own voice. "My father would flay me and my sisters if any of us even hinted at it. No, he worked for richer nobles than he, saving every coin, to send us to the best schools. He would be ashamed of us if we did anything other than our best."

They rode on, the sun setting, shedding light through the gate as they crossed under its beautifully constructed arch.

"We're now in the county of Burke. Lord Kramer's manor is one of the larger manors here. We'll bed down at the first decent inn we come across." His stomach made itself known. "And dinner, I think."

The Henley Park Inn was more luxury than Neal had seen in years. Kate liked classic style and the smaller displays of riches. She reveled in art and plays, music, dancing, and any wonder that Neal would reverently make for her. He had spent two months carving and painting the stairs leading to their bedroom. She smiled. Neal made sure to watch for it. Small at first, then...

"Neal." Peter ripped him from his memories. He took a breath, smiled, bright as he could.

"This is nice, Peter. The windows are a bit small, but manageable." The inn's servants had spelled the water in the tubs to a perfect temperature, steam rising from the porcelain vats. "The situation with the bed though..."

"No. We share the bed."

Not wanting to argue, Neal striped, handed his clothing to the polite servant near the door. "Please, wash these and have them returned." He made sure to flirt his eyes at the man, in case Peter's mentioning of clearly being owned should startle the older gentleman.

Peter handed his clothes to the man. "And have dinner sent up, please. As well as a noble's tailor tomorrow morning. We need fresh clothes."

Neal settled into the warmth, sighing deeply, causing a short coughing fit.

"And a healer, tonight."

"Yes, masters. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you." Peter gave the man a full solid coin of gold.

As soon as the servant left, Peter sank into the bathtub next to Neal.

"Peter, we're staying in a grand inn, near Kramer's manor, spending coins like sand through the hand. Are you trying to attract the attention of Kramer's spies? Why?"

Peter lathered his sponge with the heavily perfumed soap and attacked the dirt matted in his hair. "I am establishing myself as an arrogant, but fair, Civil Enforcer. A Captain from some small village. A passing fool, showing off to anyone who will lend him an ear."

Neal merrily rinsed the grime from his face, eager to shave. "And the not so subtle references to all but calling me your rent boy?"

"What? I did nothing of the sort!"

"Tell that to the servants."

Peter seemed upset at that. "I'm sorry; I meant no offense, Neal. I'm trying to cast myself as your teacher. You, as my too willful subordinate. I'm here to take you to my mentor, Lord Kramer." Peter rinsed. "Damn. Damn! I can't believe that I..." Peter felt his cheeks redden.

"Don't worry for it, Peter. Now I'm just your too willful, young rent boy that you're sleeping with."

Peter quieted at that. Deep in his thoughts.

They both settled into their tasks. A table of toiletries had been set between them. Neal carefully shaved, his fingers still slow, but steady. The gloves had brought back life to his dead hands. It frightened him how little he had cared for his hands.

He focused, instead, back to the task of grooming. What he saw in the small mirror shocked him. He felt so heavy, yet was visibly underweight. A terrible ghost trapped in flesh, with no one to haunt. He was so damn alone. His hands began to shake.

"Neal?"

He finished his bath.

They sat in thick robes at the table near the windows, overlooking the darkened farm lands in the distance. Just beneath them, the manorfolks milled about at the tea shoppes and markets, a local minstrel was closing away his guitar for the night.

Peter ate his ham, slathered in honey and butter. It went perfectly with his rich, amber beer.

Neal pushed his food in circles on his plate.

"Neal." Peter was careful to keep his voice level, without censure. Neal was likely to ignore any reprimand. "You heard the healer, eat. Drink your juice, it's very good."

A sigh was his only answer. Neal ate a few bites more, then quit the meal. He leaned back in his stuffed chair, cradling his glass. Spinning it, sipping, spinning, a small swallow.

He stared off, into the fire in the corner of the room. It was small, but the walls were thick and the room was quickly warmed. This was a grand inn, indeed.

Night had fallen outside. The bright lamps from the cobbled street below reached into their room, casting strange shapes on the ceiling.

Neal drank the last of the juice, spinning the glass one last time before setting it on the table. He looked, again, at his overstuffed and ripped pack near the door. The servants had dutifully offered to carry their bags, but Neal refused. He clutched at his sad and sorry vengeance, carrying it with him, never letting the burden go.

"Your plan, it will get us into the manor, perhaps into the the manor house itself, but what then? Kramer's Steward will only turn us away. How are we to search the grounds?"

Peter swallowed another glorious bite. "No, you see, I am spending coin I don't have. I'm spending Lord Kramer's coin. As per his return for the hospitality being offered by my wife, he, by right and tradition, must repay in kind, a grateful gesture, I'm sure.

"Kramer is a lord, after all. Staying- guesting no less, at the inner sanctum of the High Priestess.

"His Steward will welcome us with open, yet quietly begrudging, arms."

Neal chucked. Then yawned. "You are a more devious and cunning Enforcer than any I have ever met, Peter." He yawned again.

"Go to bed, Neal. I promise, your virtue will remain."

He had expected the joke to cause at least a smile. He looked instead at the shadowed face of a man lost in someplace horrible. "Neal?"

The man's head snapped to him. Then turned back to his pack. "Neal..."

"I don't have much virtue left, Peter." He sat, still, lost in his remorse, and yawned again. His eyes began to fall.

His breathing beginning to slow. "Peter... did you? You- you drugged me!"

Peter sipped his beer. "Go to bed, Neal. You'll feel better in the morning."

Neal glared, hot and hateful.

"The sheets are spelled against nightmares."

Peter didn't help Neal to his feet. Knowing he would be rejected. The too skinny man straightened his back and slowly walked to the bed, shoulders proud and guarded.

Peter watched him settle beneath the sheets. Neal was asleep within one breath and the next.

Peter turned back to his meal, rich and decadent. Not the meal he wanted. Not the roast he would be delighted to share with his love, in their home.

He wondered what El was eating, what she was doing, how well she cared for herself...


	6. Chapter 6

The noble, for all of his Civil Guard and fancy airs, was a Goddess damned, arrogant roach's scrotum. He had manners, and spoke with the grace of any lord, but his words, words, words, never ended. He spoke to the kind villagers, too polite to escape his falsehoods; to the few and scattered officials, saying pleasant things and warm compliments, as he marveled at such a well-managed village; or, worse, the long dinners with the Judges.

Five goats, bleating and pissing, snatching any chance to see a hanging. Or better, a whipping.

El sat, alone in the confessional, listening to Diana, making a mockery of the Goddess's Chapel. But if it wasn't done with a Follower's heart, it was done for a greater good, and a need to see justice done.

Diana finished, bowing her head, hands over her heart. El, refusing to give the Goddess's Blessing to an act without faith, changed her words to the young and eager Enforcer.

"The Goddess Blesses those who bless others. Be a light to others, and the righteousness of the faithful will assist you when you need it."

If Diana caught the subtle change, it never showed. Her "confession" was both informative and frighting. Kramer's Guard, a brood of grim and well-disciplined fighters, had been splitting off, in too many directions, too many shadows, for Clinton and Diana to successfully track. They would creep off into the village, doing Goddess knew what. The only boon was the news from the base of the mountain, they had some means of control in this militant climate; their hidden soldiers, a treachery against the Queen secreted away, because they were desperate.

What disturbed El the most was the time Kramer spent with the Judges and her village's Civil Enforcers. Slow, calm words spread thick with the power a lord wields. He held promises over those willing to listen, like a cruel master would hold food over hungry dogs. He was methodically gathering a place of safety.

If her love's plan did not succeed, then once Peter returned with Neal, and the evidence against Kramer, too few would listen. Peter, her kind, patient, and strong Peter, would have lead the enemy to the gates, and admitted him, welcomed him into their home.

It galled her, like a deep chaffing against her pride; she felt trapped by her role in this. Her home was sullied, a mockery of hearth and family. Her village, small and comfortable, now felt claustrophobic and encroaching. The villagers she loved so, they would fear for the safety of their loved ones, and sorrowfully cower to the mighty Lord Kramer's will.

El, Diana, Clinton, a few smattering of loyal friends, her truest Followers, all could see the despair coming. Kramer could own, in name or in deed, her small mountaintop village all too soon.

Goddess bless her fools! Kramer would find some way to discredit her and cast her out before long. Worse, her role in this political play, had given legitimate credit to the asshole. He guested in her very home. People would listen to his nonsense and lies, thinking the High Priestess supported his infected pussy-dropping deceit.

Too many consequences swam in her, a constant wailing against her inaction. She had the power of the Goddess! Snap his spine and be done! …but no; her clever Peter and his stealthy plans.

El blessed the other confessors until well into dinner. She left Priestess Yvonne and the others to fill her role when she departed. She had to prepare. Lord Kramer, valued guest, was expected. As host, she would need to be there to welcome him.

Satchmo greeted her at the exit of the Chapel. The winds whipping her hair from her hood, until his large and towering form made a lee for her. He escorted her home. The streets had grown dark, but the demon's glow lit the way clear enough.

Snow had fallen, cold and soft, showing the prints of those who had walked this way earlier. Some the prints of animals, some the village youth; however, most prints were the boots of tough but kind villagers, on their business.

Satchmo hurried her along, she was exposed; he must have seen the noticeable prints of the Guard too. Perhaps he could sense them nearby. She itched for an honest brawl. Only three days into this masquerade and she found herself grinding her teeth.

El arrived home, Satchmo not following her inside. He took up his guard at her door.

"It's only been three days, spirit. When Peter returns..."

The mountain spirit, fiercest and oldest demon hound, parted his lips and licked her neck, affection and ownership. He turned, settled, and resumed his post.

El entered her home, another night of rituals and polite gaming, by her and Peter's hearth.

Peter watched the sun rise higher as he sat at the table near the window. Truly, the sheets must have been spelled by an Arcane, for Neal still slept. The other man had moved little during the night; only once, turning into Peter. Seeking warmth, but perhaps protection too, his vulnerability and loneliness showing stark in his sleeping face. More likely though, he was turning to seek his Kate.

Breakfast had arrived long before; the remains sat cold atop the table. Peter had leapt at the meal, eggs smothered in peppers and white sauce. Meanwhile, the inn's healer seemed to have chosen a meal for Neal, a simple soup and warmed berries atop a bun. Formerly warmed, as Neal still slept.

Their clothing had arrived, clean and fresh smelling. Peter had eaten quietly, had dressed quietly, and now awaited the arrival of the tailor quietly.

The inn boasted puzzle books which Peter attacked. He had neared the end of his second puzzle when he heard the rustling of sheets. He set the book down.

Neal seemed disoriented and slow. His eyes, the blue of the sky in late summer, were no longer rimmed in red. It stole Peter's heart, the pain trapped in that beauty. Neal sat, leaned against the headboard, his robe open and exposing much of him. Without his beard, he seemed younger, perhaps nearer to his El's age.

Neal cast his eyes immediately to his pack. Assured of his burden, he pushed the hair from his brow, an everyday gesture, but causing the robe to slide from his shoulder. The man was less skeletal, but obviously still unwell.

"Breakfast arrived." Peter made certain to keep his voice neutral, not wanting to sound demanding.

Neal stood, went passed Peter, to the adjacent lavatory to relieve himself. Peter had jammed the small water closet door open, unwilling to allow Neal even the slightest opportunity to escape. "The soup is cold, but I could place it near the fire."

Neal found his neatly folded clothing and dressed himself. After lacing his boots, he strode to the table, pushed his food to the floor, calmly, a passive motion. Dishes clattered to the ground, food staining the expensive carpet. Neal sat at his chair, reclined as if a lord, the padded chair from the night before, suddenly a throne. He settled, and began marking in the book, Peter's book... when did he? Peter looked down, the pen missing, Neal was correcting his earlier answer.

"What-"

"I have been remiss, Enforcer Peter." His voice was chilling, a lifeless thing. "I thought you more honorable; I trusted you. It would seem, I should not have." Neal reclined deeper into the chair. Solved another puzzle. "But I think this was inevitable, don't you? Captain Enforcer and Master Thief, not the best of... bed fellows."

"Neal..." Peter's gut churned, breakfast not settling. He sat forward, straight and wary.

"Oddly, I still hold no ill against you. In your own way, you're quite honorable." Neal smiled then, a ghastly vision of teeth and cheek, but a deviled spark in his eyes. "You find your evidence, Peter. Inspect your mentor's manor, follow your writ, seek your justice. And I wish you well.

"But as for me..." Neal stood, book open before him, held against his chest, a slight glowing, then brighter, a flash, came from the book. No, not the book.

"Neal!" Peter rose, or tried to, his body not responding. "What? Neal!"

Neal set the book in Peter's lap, open, a complex sigil, drawn within moments, somehow without the use of blood to activate it. A familiar hair, his own, lay wedged in the spine. Of course, Neal shoved the food, distracted him, and stole a single hair...

"Master Thief, Peter." Neal reminded him.

Peter watched, uselessly struggling, as Neal donned Peter's thicker coat, the scarf from before, and the gloves. He walked, strolled, to his burden; he lifted it, held it close, like a jealous lover.

"Neal, don't do this. Every Civil Guard in this keep follow Kramer. They are not some simple town Enforcers. They could kill you!"

Neal carried the pack to the door, adjusting his grip to turn the knob, but stopping. "Ah, you spelled the door. This must have taken you much of last night. It's a fine work." He spoke with such confidence, praising the hidden spell, arrogant little shit. "I'll leave it here, undisturbed." Turning, he walked to the window, opened it...

"Neal, no! We're three stories from the grou-"

Neal smiled, smirked really, self-important, and fell from the window.

Peter, spelled to a chair, unable to move, was unable to look away as Neal fell... And landed safely on the awning jutting from the inn's door. Rolling unharmed to the ground, Neal, clutching his burden, saluted up at Peter and then raced away to the stables.

"So then, Captain Peter, this man, the one everyone in my lord's keep have been gossiping about... the man who jumped from your window, he was your...?" Fowler, Kramer's Steward, had been blunt in his questioning. Too long a soldier and not subtle enough to serve as an informant.

He must have served in Her Majesty's Guard before falling from his commander's grace, and finding employ under his lord.

But Kramer was no settled veteran. He was seeking attention and reward, not the honor that rewards a servant. His vanity was nearly subtle, but still an obvious part of him; such as the jewel kept about his neck, or his clothing, rich, freshly pressed, tailored to his broad shoulders and widening waist.

Peter felt some small measure of pity for the older man. It was a bitter thing to be forced away from a beloved cause, such as the military could bring, and then realize the remainder of one's days would be idled away.

"As I've said, Steward Fowler, he was a passing folly. One my wife would be the better for not knowing." Peter felt the shame smearing the dirt against his soul for the smile he aimed at Fowler. He had been playing the idle village Enforcer, suddenly away from responsibilities and his wife. A role the manorfolk seemed to have accepted readily. It would seem that stepping away from one's marriage vows was a common thing, here in the heart of the Queendom.

"Of course." Fowler, left with no recourse but to accept Peter's answer, moved the conversation to other topics. After the dinner, which the Steward was required, in his role, to host, Peter feigned an interest in the manor's art. Fowler toured him through the expansive home.

The art was lovely, but more interesting secrets were kept outside the cultured walls. The farmhouse, oddly close to the manor, had too many livestock for even these vast farms. The pigs and cows, fattened and caged, could be circumstantially made to feed a werewolf. However, if his mentor, once beloved and admired, were to believed as a werewolf, Peter had best find better evidence than suspicious cattle.

"I thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps tomorrow I will go into Washington of the DC and shop for an art piece for Lord Kramer... Does he still enjoy the impressionists?" It was clear Kramer wanted to remind Peter that said shopping would be done, not with his money, but with Kramer's. No gift that. Peter made himself appear the absent-minded small village Enforcer, expecting praise for his thoughtfulness, he waited at the door for Fowler to thank him.

"Here comes my servant with your horse, Captain Peter." No, not subtle at all, scorn dripped from him.

Peter accepted the reins from the servant, another former Guard, and mounted Taurus.

"Perhaps we shall do this again, Steward Fowler. Until then, may the Goddess's love find you."

"And you."

Peter waited.

"Sir."

Peter smiled, an arrogant village Enforcer, and left through the manor gate.

He rode Taurus back to the manor town, careful to watch for Kramer's "servants", former soldiers, all of them. The moon high, but weak, rose before him, casting a small pittance of light to show the border stones.

He passed the inn with his empty room, heading deeper into Burke. He watched the manorfolk mill about on their business. The taverns stayed open late, the many shoppes and playhouses would keep their doors open for some span more. But as enticing as these nightly ventures beckoned, Peter stayed his course.

Instead, he journeyed to the largest gambling house, with it's bright lights and fetching signs. The criers boasted delights and all entertainments, guiding any passerby to the large entryway.

Peter tarried, making a show atop his mount, of an indecisive villager in the large, overwhelming manortown. After some work, the criers, with little clothing and too much advertised sex, won him over.

Peter handed his horse to the stable servant, who assured him of Taurus' safety and health, and then crossed through into the establishment. Noise assaulted him from every direction. Too many people and too much drink. They laughed, squealed, some bawling.

He made his way slowly to the grand desk standing proud on a dais of dark wood and inlaid metal work. The clerks attending the patrons were quick and helpful. Peter was caught staring, gawking, at the endless menu of pleasures.

"Sir, is this your first time?" The clerk not quite smirking.

He felt his face flush. "I would like to purchase a room, charge it to Lord Kramer, by name of Captain Peter of the York of Newness."

The clerk processed the order quickly. Peter was handed a key, directed to the hall behind the massive indoor fountain, complete with fish and one drunk and naked patron, all swimming happily, and to the stairwell that was immediately quieter than the roaring crowd below him.

Peter made his way down the hall of doors. Passing his assigned room with no intent to enter, just an easy story to gain entry to his destination. Finally, at the farthest end of the long,wide hall, was his goal.

Peter held his hand to the door, palm outstretched, feeling the wards, new ones, sloppily done. He searched the hall, but he sensed no one. He drew his sword, knocked politely, and waited for a response from the other side of the door. When he heard the foot falls advance to the door, he stilled. Peter had found his quarry, Neal was here, but he wasn't alone.

With the easy skill of a practiced Enforcer, Peter shattered the wards, kicked open the door, and charged inside.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Winter's Abyss  
Author: robingal1  
Pairing/characters: P/E/N  
Spoilers: none  
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves  
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.  
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

Not mine, USA

Neal had all but collapsed at the sight of his once partner. The small man had done well for himself. Running one of the largest ThiefGuild networks and still not known for it. He thrived in ambiguity, and blossomed in the challenges.

Neal had broken with the Guild, a hard thing, a dangerous thing, after his life came crashing down at his feet. To quit the Guild was unheard of, most were politely but firmly killed. But Neal had made his living from achieving the unexpected. Also, Mozzie owed him a favor, or several.

As they parted ways, Mozzie kept the Guild from Neal, and in turn, Neal maintained his monthly tithe to the Guild.

And now, the years apart seemed vague. Time had done little to their friendship. The old games, the old jokes, the simple gestures, all came back to him, like a favored pair of shoes. His steps were surer, his eyes keener.

Mozzie, never one for overlong pleasantries, simply toasted a fine glass of wine at Neal.

It hadn't been easy reuniting with the man. Neal was half mad in his grief, likely some part of him always would be.

Neal wasn't certain how he made his way back to the Saint of Louis, only that Kate was gone. She was gone, gone, gone. Torn away from him. He struggled into the first door he saw and fell to the floor, delirious, calling for help.

There was too much noise for a time, he was moved, then questions were thrown at him, unceasing, cruel. But when the world had settled, he was in the town jailhouse. They cast him the villain. The evidence against him too much. The Civil Guard had an alibi for all of Neal's baseless attacks against the noble visitor. They threw insults and spittle. His world was broken, shattered, and the resulting shards cut him too deeply to function. He felt himself slipping away. Pain and anger, without an outlet.

But Kate, she needed him. Kate needed him to live, to find her. But Kate was dead. Kate called out to him. Neal paced the jailhouse cell. She came to him, over and over, screaming in the snow under a full moon. Kate was dead, Kate needed him. Kate was dead, Kate needed him.

He escaped. The bars of the cell never built to contain a Master Thief.

Kate's screams drove him, he raced to the edge of town. To the edge of the forest, riding a horse he didn't, couldn't, recall gaining, and stopped. If he left, Kate couldn't leave. Kate needed him, but she was held captive in the town, screaming and dying and dead but real.

Hands were on him then. Pulling him down, beating him. The blacksmith's fists were sure and tough to the middle of him.

After some span of madness and terror, he escaped again. But not without his love. She guided him to every silver piece. Every gleaming metal, tarnished or not, found its way to his hands. He stole the blacksmith's horse, purposefully this time. A scattered, simple plan forming in his mad mind.

But as he and his Kate made his way back to where he left his stolen mount, a stray memory came: Mozzie. A man of resources and not adverse to blood-spilling. He went to the fountain, the same one where he had found...

He drew a sigil from his misspent youth, a calling card to those who knew; he placed just enough will to activate the calling. Guild was everywhere, and if they saw this, they would inform the man meant to know. The Master Neal, the Bondsman, was alive.

After, there was walking. Long spans of it. Trudging through the cold. Kate's voice held close in his pack. Days of it. Nights of it.

Until the time with Peter and Elizabeth. The fog from his mind lifting. Kate's voice quieted. The madness abated, altered his thinking, shifted in his mind, some bits of sanity returning.

Pride, the follies of him, found him again, naked and alone. But he felt a steady peace, a remembrance of love, others taking on the burdens of life, leaving him less troubled in sleep.

Later, when Peter found him again, Neal stole away, and pissed his sigil into the snow. He focused his fractured thinking to active the circle, another calling card left glowing faintly behind a cluster of trees by the road to Washington of the DC.

It wasn't until his entry to the sprawling capital with Peter, that Neal spotted his once partner, dressed as a tinker, hocking his wares at the gate.

He waited, waited, and then joined with him at the stables, after falling from the inn and escaping Peter. Mozzie atop his horse. Neal and his bungle, his Kate, mounted Bugsy and they rode away together.

Like an old adventure, like a favored song, Mozzie was welcomed.

Mozzie treated him, not delicately, but slow, hesitating, weary of his former partner. But then, Mozzie had always been one for paranoia.

Neal sat, newly attired, with a brimmed hat, on the plush couch in a softly lit room in Burke county's most lauded gambling establishment. He held a glass of fine wine, the taste sharp, but the warmth spreading in him was welcomed.

Mozzie, certainly aware of the murder of his Kate, asked nothing of Neal, save would he prefer the fish brought to the room, or perhaps just a spread of herbs and swan livers with crackers?

They ate, joking, laughing. Neal finished his meal. It surprised him. The drugged and spelled rest from before, with the healing from Eliz- the Priestess, seemed to have accomplished much.

Neal stowed his pack under the table. He didn't want Kate hearing him joke about past crimes and sins. He had cast those away.

He knew this dance, the way Mozzie worked. The man would be his best friend, give him anything asked, but then quote his price. Neal relaxed into it. Neal had some few treasures hidden away, he would give them in exchange. What need would Neal have with them? In truth, he didn't expect to live past the next full moon.

So, he relaxed. Assured of his goal. Assured of his renewed friendship. The dinner heavy, pleasantly so, the wine, warm. The couch was plush.

There was a knock then. Neal looking to Mozzie, Mozzie to him.

Neal stood, went to his pack. Mozzie cautiously went to answer the door.

It exploded inward with a well placed kick, Mozzie's wards shattering, useless, as Peter stormed in, sword in hand, pointed directly at Mozzie's throat.

Neal stood there, unable to think. Mozzie, his hands held outstretched, seemed equally surprised.

"Neal."

"Peter?"

"Who's your friend?" Mozzie shifted away, Peter advanced. In a matter of three fast and brutal moves, his friend was pinned against the wall, hands being secured with a spelled rope. "Your hat looks silly."

Mozzie was guided to sit on the couch. Neal stood, planted to the spot. "This hat is a classic, unlike that scarf from earlier. That was... silly."

Peter had new clothes, the tailor must have arrived. It was likely the tailor that had freed Peter.

Mozzie leaned back, accepting his condition, for now. He looked at the intruder, scoffed. "Nice suit." And went back to playing the passive.

"I'm a simple man, I have simple tastes. Sometimes." He looked at Neal as he said the last. Neal wasn't certain what he saw.

Peter closed the door, but it wouldn't close all the way, its hinges broken. Sword still drawn, he gestured for Neal to join Mozzie at the couch.

Neal ignored it. "Why are you here? How are you here?"

Peter, sword uplifted at Neal, moved to the pack under the table. Neal, without thinking, threw himself in front of Peter, sword be damned, protecting Kate. "Neal, go sit. You can bring your burden with you. Go."

Neal lifted it carefully, eyes on Peter. Mozzie threw question after question at him, all with a look. He sat, his pack at his feet. "Mozzie, this is Captain Peter of the Civil Enforcers, from the village of the York of Newness. His wife, the High Priestess of the Goddess, likely hid a tracking spell somewhere about me.

"That was well done, Peter."

Peter nodded his head. He put his sword away, sat at the nearby desk chair, situated between the door and the couch.

"My wife is a gifted Follower, she has many skills."

"Why are you here, Enforcer?" Mozzie asked. There was no heat it, just a pique of curiosity.

"Him." He pointed at Neal. "He has been accused of the murder of Bookkeeper Kate by the townspeople of the Saint of Louis. He has escaped my custody. I have been tasked, by the Judges of my village, to return him for trial.

"Lord Kramer will be there, with his Civil Guard, all highly trained killers, to see a judgment made."

Mozzie looked to Neal. White, shocked. "I- Neal... I had been told, of her death, but not of Kramer's involvement. That man is not some easy mark. You should never have thought to try your hand alone. I can have word out before sunrise! Every hand with a blade-"

"No, Mozz... I-I have to... Kate needs me to kill him."

"Ah, the silver in your pack. You mean to...?" Mozzie, careful not to show any outward sign of pity, still couldn't bring himself meet Neal's eyes.

Peter held out a rope to Neal, spelled. "Neal, I meant what I said before. Justice comes first. There is revenge in justice." Peter held the rope in one hand, his other rested on his sword, a warning. "Come with me peaceably, Neal. You can't escape, I'll always find you."

Neal's heart pounded in his chest, fighting against his ribs, demanding escape. "Peter..." It came out weak, almost begging.

"You can go to face the certain hanging the Judges will sentence, the murder of Kate will go unavenged, and Kramer will outlive us both, killing countless more.

"Or, you can play the part I offer. Find a way into Kramer's manor house, discover his fleece, present it as evidence, and avenge your love.

"Decide. And stay to the decision, because I will hold you to it, all the way to the end." Peter made it a promise.

Neal smiled, big, bright, full. I bold lie, but a familiar one. "What choice do have? Of course I'll help you sneak into Kramer's manor." Neal ignored Peter's rope, instead reaching down to carry his pack.

"Say it, Neal. All of it." Peter still held out the damned rope.

Neal realized then, just how determined Peter really was. He sat up straighter, shoulders back; he let the words leave his body, tight, precise. "I will help you enter Kramer's manor, I will help you discover evidence proving him a werewolf, I will return with you to present the evidence."

Peter weighed his words, accepted them, and moved his hand away from his sword.

"You can put the rope away, Peter." He did so. And moved to the door, impatient, ready to leave, and not likely to tolerate any distractions.

Well, fuck him. Neal helped his friend, still bound, to his feet. Turning him, Neal touched the ropes, a faint white flash, and the ropes fell away. A smile passed between them.

"Do you remember the statue? After the job with Estelle? The one with the violin? You'll find a sizable payment there. Bring a hammer." He moved to follow Peter.

"Neal, no." Mozzie held Neal's arm, pulling him away from Peter. "I know this man, Kramer, this werewolf. You can't do this, not without help! Not even you."

Neal, turning from his friend, hefted his pack, and left with Peter. "She always liked you. You made her laugh."

The hall outside was dark and empty. Peter lead, Neal followed.

Peter watched, in some state between awe and revulsion, as Neal worked his stolen silver. Neal had told the stable keeper some steep lie, gaining them admittance to the blacksmith's furnace in the middle of the day, all the tools therein were at their disposal; the blacksmith had bowed before leaving them.

The winter could not find them here, with such a heat blowing. Peter had removed his coat, then shirt, and now wondered how Neal could endure wearing the leather gear.

Sweat poured from the man. His ropey muscles straining as he worked the bellows.

He paused after the first piece hit the heat. His eyes clouded over, distant, hurt. But his hands never stopped. His body conditioned, muscle memory, Neal hardly seemed aware. But as he melted his next piece, and the next, he came back to himself, focused and intent.

Peter spent most of his time asking the stable youth to bring them water, again and again he asked. The youth seemed unoffended, and Peter was glad for it.

"Tell me again what you saw at Kramer's manor?" Neal asked as he poured his molten silver into the stone molds. Convenient, the molds, like so much of the smith's contents.

Peter sighed in frustration. "I've told you, too many times; what answer are you looking for?"

He had asked and asked. As soon as they were alone, save the youth, Neal had asked after the road conditions, the door frames, the number of windows, the table settings, even the smells from the hall. Relentless, focused, driven, all the hallmarks of what Peter would expect from a man bent on such a hellpath.

The obsession shown in Neal's work. His victory, his stolen silver, his Kate, all melted down and cast into the cool water waiting near the forge.

The silver hissed, like a scream, as it came into contact with the ashen water. The wail carried to the pitched rafters above them, on and on, in pain.

Neal went white. Peter rose from his unobtrusive seat against the windowsill; but Neal locked his knees, took a breath, and went back to his work.

It took well into the night. The youth refilling their waters, unasked. Peter gave him a full coin and then again after the sun had set.

The hammering was the worst of the affair. The constant ringing echoing in his ears, the painful noise first sharp then dull, repeated and repeated.

Neal had cast off his leathers to the floor; the youth placing them back unto their hooks, seeming pleased that the work was nearing done.

Peter went to Neal, as the man stumbled to the ground, smiling up at him from his ass, his face covered in dirt and tear stains. "Done?"

"Finished." Neal drank, gulp after gulp of water. He sat there, filthy, none too good smelling, burned where the leathers slipped from his too small frame. But victorious.

On the table were five throwing knives, a sigil etched into each one; Peter couldn't recognize it, but knew it important if Neal placed it there.

Peter had watched as Neal would test their balance, over and over. Perhaps Neal truly was a Master of Art; he had shown no hesitation at the forge, he hammered his silver with care, precision, strength, and a surety of experience. If he were a Master, what other talents lay in this man's blistered, shaking hands?

Peter, knowing better than to touch the blades, not for the heat, but because Neal would not tolerate it, brought the pack over. Neal settled his knifes into it and lay back on the filthy ground, giddy with exhaustion.

Peter called the youth once more; together, they helped to carry Neal to Bugsy, all but lashed him to the saddle. He bid the boy a blessing and lead Neal back to the inn.

The baths were prepared; but this time, servants were required to help wash Neal. They were thanked, paid, and bid a blessed night.

Neal slept for a full day. He awoke just after sundown.

He scanned the room for his burden, smaller in size, but still heavy to his soul, and roused from the bed.

He seemed revived, a new man. Sore, slow, but less lost. Whatever cathartic actions Neal had performed, the haunting in his eyes seemed less. The madness more distant, determination showing instead.

"The moon will be waning tonight, a perfect time for burglary, don't you think?" Neal asked as he spread marmalade on toast.

"Burglary? What? No, of course not!" He responded, preparing himself for a very odd argument. "We're not stealing anything, Neal."

A snort, followed by chewing, was his only reply.

The servant knocked at the door. "This arrived for you, sirs."

"Excellent! Peter, pay the woman!" Neal had not left the chair, still eating anything not nailed down.

Peter did so and brought the large package to the floor near the table; the table full of what looked like every dish the kitchen had. He opened it.  
"When did you have these ordered, Neal? I've been with you at every moment. How?"

Peter pulled the leather belt from the box. No, not belt, scabbards, perfectly sized for his knifes, absolutely perfectly sized. It was a deep black leather, soft.

Next came a set of lock pics, also bound in the soft black leather.

Finally, at the bottom, was a heavily detailed map of Lord Kramer's manor. Note after note was there. An entire itemized list of what could be found in what room. It was dated three days ago.

"Where...?"

"The map was an easy purchase. Any manor as large as Kramer's would have at least one Guild member. Perhaps not a servant on the grounds itself... likely a delivery carrier, but someone observant and willing to report to the Guild when needed." Neal poured another glass of what looked like a very impressive vintage.

"This is from the ThievesGuild?" Peter thought back. "Mozzie?"

"Among others. Want some?" He offered the wine to Peter.

Peter stood, hands on hips. Neal leaned back, smiling, waiting, letting Peter figure the answer for himself.

"The stable youth! He's one of yours!" Peter pointed his finger at him.

"Not one of mine, I am no longer Guild. But yes, he saw the blades; he knew what dimensions to tell the leather worker."

"The picks?" Peter lifted them, inspecting them. "They've been used. Can you rely on them?"

Neal held out his hand, Peter gave him the picks. Neal smiled. "These were mine. It seems he kept them."

"Mozzie?"

Neal held them, a long lost item, found again. He didn't answer the question. Instead, he stood, slowly, painfully making his way vertical. He walked to the lavatory, prepared himself for bed, and walked passed Peter.

"What are you doing? I thought you were going to try and convince me that burglary was the answer. Are you going back to bed?"

"Peter, I understand, you are an Enforcer. You can not steal evidence; that would defy your justice-seeking ways. Instead, you must be granted entry, you must somehow find the offending item in open air, and only then can you arrest such foul doers of evil." Neal lifted the covers off the bed and eased his way into it. "But you will recall nothing in my oath of how I- a Master Thief- had planned on assisting you. You'll find my way is much faster."

"My way is lawful."

"Study the map, Peter. Wake me after the moon reaches zenith."

Neal was asleep not long after.

Peter studied the damn map.


	8. Chapter 8

Elizabeth, High Priestess of the Goddess, Healer, and Caretaker of the Holy Springs, cursed with a passion as she emerged from the woods toward the valley.

The moon, nearing its zenith, cast light enough to guide her to the valley below.

The noble Lord Kramer had been encouraged to watch the local singers perform an impromptu concert. Elizabeth had feigned important business, and sadly, could not attend.

She cast a simple glamor against the Guard tasked with escorting her, and made way to meet with her newest allies.

She often times went back over her tracks, or purposely went through the thick weeds, anything she could think of to hide her snowy tracks.

Thorns had pierced her, sticks had torn her coat, and she had slipped in the freezing mud, causing her clothes to stick to her.

The High Priestess used the most creative of curses as she blundered into the small camp set near the border stones that separated the valley from her mountain home.

"Priestess?" A voice called out to her in greeting. "You curse?"

"That's High Priestess. And by the ass-puckering flames of hell, fuck, yes I damn well curse!" She paused, taking in the sight of the tall ork. "Fuck and Tits! Does anyone in your camp have a damn beer?"

Hunter Alex, leader of the ork tribe, raised her brows. Speechless, she looked to her nearby associate, and watched her fetch the ordered beer.

Elizabeth followed Alex into the camp. She was always astounded at the grace in a creature so massive. Her clothing was sensible but heavily jeweled. Her long black hair was kept neatly pined in a complicated style. But most striking were her hands, stronger than any human, but so delicate to hold a baby bird.

They exchanged a few pleasantries, shared the expensive beer, and spent the rest of the night arguing.

"Enough!" Alex stood, many of the campers nervous, not wanting a blood-spilling. "You know what I want! My father died to find the treasure in your mountain, and I mean to honor him! Admit my party unto your mountain, El!"

Elizabeth, more than slightly drunk, and ecstatic with the idea of a Goddess damned fight, threw her head back to stare all the way up at the taller woman. The fire casting her teeth larger and sharper than El had previously thought.

"No." El belched. The camp froze. "First, not my mountain. The mountain spirit has killed one of yours in warning when you tried to search his mountain. That, Alex, was dumb and greedy.

"Next, you came to the village and asked for permission. That was much nicer. But Satchmo was still against you, and he's the mountain spirit so..."

Alex fumed. "Then why is your ugly, too skinny, white skinned ass here?"

"Because there is an evil greater than your greed in my home, threatening my village, hurting my Goddess's Followers, bringing sinister deeds to the Queendom, and I will not let this pass. And you, Alex, are a means to an end."

Alex resumed her seat, not once taking her eyes from the very angry and very powerful High Priestess. "We haven't let anyone leave this mountain, just as we agreed; your Clinton was convincing, your Diana a force of will. We've not killed anyone, but we've made ourselves into bandits, thugs, doing as you asked. And still you will not let us enter the caves!"

El stared at her, into her. "Not yet. But Satchmo has shown me your treasure, Alex."

The other woman froze. "You've seen it?"

"A box, gold and covered in old runes. There are creatures with wings, not birds, not Angels, on the corners of the box. Is that what your grandfather left your family?"

"Likely..."

El placed her ork-sized bottle, her fourth, she thought, at her feet. She stood, heavy with purpose, and a dire need to piss. "Hunter Alex, as it is in my power to give, I hereby grant you access to that one cave, to retrieve that one item, under the guard of the demon spirit, but permitted no where else on his mountain."

The whole of the camp stared at her. "How do I know that you're not lying? You could place any box there and tell me lies, making me believe a false relic is my family's lost treasure. No, I demand assurances."

"A mountain spirit cannot lie. He has been here longer than my village, longer than your family, and will be here long after our deaths. He does not want you to take the box, because the man who placed it there was a friend to him. The demon hound has memories hidden all throughout the forest and deep within the earth. His memory is longer than either of our lives.

"If you take that box, you'll take away his friend. He grieves to have you take it."

Alex, motionless, stayed to her spot, struck by the words. "The spirit beast loved my family? He honors my family?"

El swayed, began making her way to the edge of camp, a small, faintly glowing hound sat, attentive, just near the border stones.

Alex escorted her. "I have to bring it back, Elizabeth. My family's honor... there are evils in my home, too." She sounded resolute, but saddened. "I never knew..."

El crossed the border; Alex didn't. Satchmo looked up at them, bowed his small, faint head at Alex, and turned away, off into the woods, his tail down.

"Don't be too honored. He keeps stealing my shoes. Years from now, Satchmo will remember me because he favored my shoes!" She smiled as she said it.

Hunter Alex stood at full attention. "I mean to have that treasure, High Priestess. My camp will continue to detour your people, trap them here in this, your home, as per our part of this fool's bargain."

"Be sure, Alex! You risk your lives. For a golden box. I can not tell my village that you will not kill them, and they will think to defend themselves. Any of you could be arrow shot, die."

"Who are you trying to keep away from the world, Elizabeth? Who are you locking away?"

"A most highly honored lord and his extremely well trained and ruthless Civil Guard."

"Bitch! You would have the Queen herself call us her enemy!"

"I would. Would you?"

El turned, walked, stumbled, all the way up to her mountaintop. She had to walk the wrong way, to cover her path, to confuse any Guard. She fell, skinned her knee, and stayed, too tired to move, on the other side of the mountain, far from the camp.

Satchmo was likely spending time with his box. Kramer was likely warm in his honored bed. Clinton was likely bedded down with an eager, young thing. Diana was likely finishing her midnight prayers, and then going to her warm bed. And her Peter...

But here sat the High Priestess, covered in mud, too drunk after a night spent with the now thuggish orks, and so, so lonely.

With a great breath, she screamed as far as her voice would carry. "Fuck!"

Peter sat atop his mount, watching as Neal rode beside him. The moon sat low and heavy in the sky, the stars little more than candles in the distance.

The younger man was tense, an arrow waiting to be shot. He wore the dark and over-priced clothing Mozzie had purchased for him. He looked like something from a street minstrel's wardrobe. The scabbards and belt hidden under his coat, likely his lock picks too.

"We'll enter as I did last time; only this dinner, you will be my guest. We'll inform Steward Fowler that I have come to thank him for his lord's hospitality, and between the two of us, I'm sure that we can overstay our welcome." He was pleased with his plan. More so when Neal didn't object.

"A bit late for dinner, isn't it? Or perhaps, too early?" Neal may not have objected, but he did like to nitpick.

"Breakfast, then. We are, after all, leaving for our long journey."

Neal didn't say anything else, choosing to ride the remainder in silence, alone with his thoughts.

They arrived at the manor house.

A very lively manor. Lively at night. The latest of the night, too early for even the cockerels.

Yet servants and farm hands were working. The nearby farmhouse was well lit and active. And judging by the sounds coming from within, every animal inside was being slaughtered.

Taurus sniffed the air in distress, Bugsy seemed no better.

"Peter." Neal spoke low and forceful. "Your Enforcer Charm-activate it! Make record of this, bring it to the council."

"It's circumstantial. Any manor can do as they wish to their own livestock."

"Active it, Peter. The rest of this night will not offer you another chance."

Peter's gut, churning since they left the stables, grew more alert. Neal seemed interested in every action of the manor house. Even the trees, their slight sway, caused Neal to study it.

"Neal, what aren't you telling me?"

"Active the damn charm, Peter. Or leave. I mean to kill Kramer. But these beasts need executing too."

"What?"

Neal tied Bugsy to the hitching post.

Peter, suddenly feeling as though he was in over his head, missing his trusted team, the reliable back up they provided, dismounted his horse and followed Neal.

He reached to this sheath, the embroidered sigil just at the top, was more than some talisman of his station. It was created by the Queen herself. A protection and a responsibility. A tool to serve justice.

Peter activated the charm. From now until he deactivated the charm, every action within his sights and senses would be made record.

They made their way to the manor house door, knocked, waited, and waited, and still no Steward or servant showed. "We'd best go to the farmhouse, then. Seek admittance that way."

Peter began to walk to the steps leading away from the broad porch, when he heard the door open behind him. Neal rose from his knees, pocketing something.

"The door's open, Enforcer." A small smirk.

"Neal, did you use your lo-"

"Have you activated your charm?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go." Neal wasted no time.

Past the door, the tall windows were blocked, heavy curtains drawn, allowing almost no light to navigate. "Neal!" Peter kept his voice low. "Come back. We haven't been given permission to enter."

"Do you still wish to find evidence against Kramer? Against his corrupted Civil Guard? Then follow your escaped prisoner, Peter. But keep up, or I will have to leave you."

Peter entered, sword drawn, finding Neal quickly. The man was searching the manor, room by room, with systematic, practiced efficiency.

"Neal, we're still on the ground floor, do you really think that this where he'd keep his fleece?"

Neal answered without stopping his search; his eyes took on a frightening glow. It was subtle, like most of Neal's characteristics, but there for those who looked. "We're not looking for a fleece. Not technically. It will be a rotting piece of human flesh."

"What? Neal, what are-"

Neal looked at him, the white glow from earlier, lightly, softly, escaping from his eyes. "Kramer's not the only werewolf. That slaughter, in the farmhouse, is for the three or so werewolves here. They serve their master, Peter. Lord Kramer has been building his pack for years, by the looks of things."

"Neal, your eyes..."

"Let's try upstairs. We don't know how much time we'll have until we're found."

"...To find the human flesh?"

Peter allowed Neal to lead; his steps much quieter as they assented the steps, Master Thief, in name and deed. The curtains were drawn in every room and hall.

Peter stood at the door as Neal effectively searched each drawer, each closet, even the chamber pots.

They made their way to the servant's floor. Neal stopped after tossing the third small living space. His eyes flashed, just for the shortest span, and then returned to the muted glow. "Someone's coming."

Peter searched for some place to hide. The space was too small. Just a bed, a covered window, and some few personal items atop a chest.

Neal drew himself up, standing boldly in full view.

"You there!" A voice, strong, female, guttural, murderous. "Who the fired hell are you?"

Neal never flinched at the anger aimed at him. "Are your masters calling a feast this night?" Neal looked to the woman, uncowed. "This feast has tasked you and your fellows well into the night, nearly to morning, and still you slaughter the animals?"

"Who... are-"

"The first time you were ordered, you were too new to your job, happy for the money."

Neal was breaking her down, his eyes burned into hers. "But now, years later, you are too drawn to it, to the blood, the power, the roars of your masters as they tear away at the blood and bone."

His eyes glowing, brighter and brighter. "And you want that power. You want to rend the meat from creatures, small and great, the blood warm down your chin. You want that? Poor servant, lonely and sad, you want to join that?"

"Yes." The woman swayed where she stood. "I want..."

"They offered it to you? Just swear your loyalty, and you'll be one of them?"

"Yes."

Neal never moved. "And the first time you killed for them, who was it?"

"The older staff, they had to go."

"Who did you kill?"

"I had to!" The woman's voice grew agitated, fighting Neal's spell. "He was nobody! Just some man."

"His name!"

Peter, sword and rope at the ready, moved to arrest her.

"Dobbs. He was here before me; the older staff wouldn't understand, they had to go. They had to-" Before Peter could step from behind the door, the woman fell, dead.

"Neal! Did you-"

"Yes. We have to move, the others will be looking for her soon. The cellar is the only place left." Neal moved to the hall. "We have to-"

"Neal... You've just committed a murder." His mind reeling. But his duty clear. He made ready his rope. "Sit down on the bed, I'll leave you here, find the fleece, and return for you." He moved to Neal, and his damn devil eyes.

"Flesh, Peter." Neal did something then, the rope that was in his hands suddenly gone. "Flesh. From their first kill. That's what gives them their power."

Peter looked at his empty hands. "Who the fired hell are you?"

"The Bondsman."

"The Bon- A werewolf killer? You?"

He smiled, but his glowing eyes were unforgiving. "As her Majesty's Bondservant, I did not kill that woman; I executed a murderer on the night of her Turning." Neal hefted the woman off the floor and out of sight from the hall. "Cellar." And he left, leaving Peter to follow or be left behind.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Winter's Abyss  
Author: robingal1  
Pairing/characters: P/E/N  
Spoilers: none  
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves  
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.  
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

His soul was confused. He had not used his Earthstone in years. Not since he quit the Guild, quit the Bondsman, quit his life. His life had been simple, boring at times, but with Kate by his side, a worthy exchange: his pride and powers in turn for a lifetime in peace with his love.  
But now, Kate was gone. And his Earthstone, buried deep inside his heart, was the return of a rich wine to an absent alcoholic. The warm glow of it pulsing through him.  
His senses heightened, his endurance nearly unending, and his obligation so perfectly clear before him.  
His fingers itched to join the unavoidable battle. His knives, resting under his coat, held his Kate, his love, his vengeance, his relentless need to kill these murdering Goddess dammed beasts.  
Peter, sword drawn, at his back, followed him to the cellar. That was a different challenge. The Enforcer should not be seeing these things, but his honesty, his integrity, was likely the only thing that might save his broken soul tonight.  
Peter stood guard at the bottom of the steps, near the door once more. Neal scanned the damp and old cellar.  
"They're here." He whispered.  
"The fleece? Flesh? The evidence we need?"  
"Don't you smell that? The decay that never decays. The rot that never rots away. Flesh of the first kill."  
"Find it, then. I wish to... Neal? Do you hear that?"  
"Hear what? I don't hear anything."  
"Exactly. I don't hear any more screaming coming from the farmhouse. They could be-"  
"-On their way back?" A male voice, arrogance in every note. He had the smell of decay about him. He was wearing the flesh; he was going to Turn, tomorrow night, under the moon. Likely, he would Turn others tonight. More than the murdering woman laying dead upstairs, perhaps dozens.  
"Fowler!" Peter spat the name at the Steward.  
The man, Fowler, descended the stairs slowly. At his throat was a jewel, an Earthstone. Neal couldn't stop the gasp from his lungs.  
"Shocked? I don't see why. We're the Civil Guard, fool. Of course we know about Bondservants." He grinned wide. "We took precautions." He gestured to the jewel. "I took this from the last Bondswoman. She screamed for days. Apparently, these aren't just for show; they are, in fact, bonded to each Bondservant. Finally, I just burned the flesh from her, and the jewel survived..." Fowler strutted the rest of the way into the cellar.  
Neal stood still, eyes Seeing as two other wolves approached; they had no jewel; they stayed at the top stair, waiting for their orders.  
His eyes were useless at Fowler. The wolf knew it.  
But only a Master can Turn others. And Fowler was no Master. "You told the servant woman, likely many before, that you would Turn them. You promised them immortality, but you dangle the treat too far from them. They burn themselves out trying. Why keep them at all?" Neal never moved. His hands away from his body, kept at his sides. His voice low, level, peaceful.  
"To watch them believe. They think that they can have this power. And when it comes time to Hunt... they will die from my teeth, and the sudden realization that they were always a play toy.  
"The taste of the desperation, mixed with their crushed dreams... No meal can compare."  
Peter stood as Neal left him, near the bottom of the stairs. Kramer was a single step from him.  
The Enforcer sigil still active, every sight, every sound, every sense made record, so long as Peter lived.  
"And tonight, you prepare for the Hunt? Tomorrow, the moon full and bright. You'll run these fools into the ground and devour the sweetest meat?"  
Kramer raised a brow. "Yes." Ignoring Peter, coming closer, Kramer loomed over him. The decay was strong, years old. No matter how many layers of clothing, or strong perfumes, a scent that old could not be hidden. Peter must have been fighting not to gag, so near to the wolf and his flesh, his first kill from so long ago.  
The man unsheathed his sword, an old blade, well kept, a soldier's legacy proudly displayed. He casually brought the end to Neal's heart.  
Neal leaned into the blade, the end sharp, biting. Blood soaked his shirt. "Can your feel it, wolf? The Earthstone? Just before your steel?" Neal felt his smile, a cruel and deadly thing, teeth and anger, a smile wide and uncaring.  
"Fool, I will eat your eyes first." Kramer lifted his sword, sudden and filled with wrath, a strike powerful and hungry aimed at his heart. The blow came fast and hard... but missed.  
Instead, Kramer fell past Neal. He came to his feet quickly, preparing another blow. He roared as he lifted his sword above his head, and stopped, in pain. A burning, a deep, deep burning. "What?"  
He pulled away, away from Neal, away from Peter, away from the door, away from his fellow wolves, against the cellar wall, panting. Neal smiled still, a feckless thing, built with malice.  
"Felt that, did you?" Neal was steady, unmoved from his place in the damp earth, arms away from his body, a non-threat. "Does it hurt? No. It burns. A fire in your flesh. And it will never heal, wolf."  
Neal could feel it, the Earthstone. So long unused, screaming to be used again, beating against his heart, demanding, relentless, and so deadly.  
Kramer, hand to his side, felt the blood seeping down is ribs from his armpit. His dominant arm hanging uselessly.  
He looked to his wolves, who carefully entered the cellar. They had their swords at the ready. They had their flesh about them, wrapped and hidden against themselves.  
Neal could See them with ease. Everything was easy. Goddess! Why had he ever put away his Earthstone?  
"Peter, those two descending, they're only human this night, no matter how much they wish otherwise. The flesh they wear, it is weak and still new. They can not call on the strength of it. It takes years of bathing the rot in blood." Peter stood with his sword at the ready, his breathing calm, and his displeasure clear. "They can not be reformed, Peter. They are feral."  
Kramer rose, steady and sure, ready to kill, to protect his pack from the Bondservant.  
"You'll die. Both of you. I would have saved you for my Master, but tonight you die, Bondsman. I'll wear two stones!" He moved, swift, a ghost in the darkness.  
His Earthstone useless against his speed, the Sister Earthstone blocking his Sight. But he had Kramer to kill; he was fueled with a fury Fowler could not touch, could not stand against. Fowler was going to fall this night, hard.  
"Neal!" Peter shouted in warning, too late. The wolf hitting him across his back, a slash made for pain, to disarm, not to kill. Kramer meant for this to go on.  
A shout of surprise and pain left him. "Neal!"  
But Peter was unable to cross the cellar. The others were on him. Two on one, but evenly matched against the Captain.  
Neal stood, pride and arrogance to match Kramer's. The Earthstone blocking the pain, giving him the strength to endure. "Don't worry, Peter." His voice calm, his breathing peaceful. "Dispatch your quarry, Captain."  
Neal stood his ground against the wolf twice more. The darkness working to the wolf's advantage. His Sight useless.  
He felt the madness so long held at bay clawing its way to the surface. His grief, his regrets, his broken soul, all of the anger, the unfairness, the terror, the loss, all of it, coming faster and faster. "Fucking finally! A struggle worthy of the attempt!  
"Kramer, your Master is the one I seek, but this night, I will take your life before his. Not for any other cause than it pleases me to do so."  
Kramer stood in front of him, his face sweating and angered, in pain and scorned. His pride offended, his pack affronted. "I will take your life and jewel, Bondservant!"  
"No, wolf, you'll take one last breath. Then answer to the Goddess for the Curse you earned. I'll burn your flesh, wolf, while you're still alive to see it."  
Neal stood, hands away from his body, non-threatening. A smile on his lips.

Peter's sword clashed against first one, then another opposing sword. His fear viciously stamped down.  
Both wolves strong and well-disciplined Guard. They fought with a practiced ease. They advanced on him. Forcing him away from Neal, toward the opposite wall.  
He had never thought of a pack. To see a werewolf, just one, was a terrible thing. But a pack! Years in the making...  
Peter never accounted for this. His wife held the wolf in their home, unable to reveal himself, unable to Turn. She and his team, awaiting his return, to give justice to the werewolf.  
Yet here were more. A pack of them. Meaning that Elizabeth housed not just Kramer, but any or all of the Guard, capable of Turning.  
Peter stamped down his fear, again. He stabbed the wolf to his left, shallow, but causing the man to misstep. Peter blocked the other man's blow, advancing on the left, harshly and quick. A final blow and the man fell to the ground, dead.  
His fellow cried out. A moment of unfocused folly, Peter heartlessly took advantage and plunged his blade into the man's gut. The heat of the man's deathblood flooded against his hand.  
The man fell near his companion.  
He stared at them, werewolves. A pack of them. In the heart of the Queendom.  
He lost himself, but a sudden cry called him back. Fowler stood with a silver throwing knife steaming and hissing in his thigh, deep into the bone.  
Neal still stood, unmoved, blood flowing down his shoulder, his back, his stomach. All shallow wounds, but too many could kill.  
"Peter, your skills are praiseworthy. Well done, Captain." Neal spoke without a sign of pain. His posture seemed unfettered. His hands at his sides, eyes glowing fiercely, white were there should be blue.  
Kramer, panting and blood-spilling, took notice of his pack mates, unmoving, dead. "Chattel! I'll fucking kill you!"  
"Come at me, werewolf. Attack me, Kramer's whore. Give me the onslaught you've been promising me, you Goddess damned mindless beast."  
Kramer rose from his defensive stance. A slow movement, a grunt of pain escaping him, as he stood, an attack in the making.  
Too slowly, Peter realized, the attack not meant for Neal, but himself.  
Neal must have realized. "Peter!"  
A movement, a blur passed by him, a winter wind in a dank cellar. But then the cold air seemed to be rushing into him, freezing him from the inside. A weakness causing his knees to collapse.  
"Peter!" Neal sounded haunted. He looked at him, up at him; when had he laid down? 


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Winter's Abyss  
Author: robingal1  
Pairing/characters: P/E/N  
Spoilers: none  
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves  
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.  
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

"Peter!" Goddess, Goddess, no!

Fowler stood above Peter, his sword only inches deep in the limp man's chest, any more and it would pierce Peter's heart. The werewolf had gashed the Enforcer deep in the abdomen, Peter's blood spilling out.

"I think, Bondservant, you will find that we have come to a draw."

The madness, abated for the fleeting pang of grief at his gaoler's pain, returned with a furry. Neal accepted it, loved it, caressed it, welcomed it. His sanity, his soul, lost, willingly abandoned. His smile a homecoming of death, of hunting, of his long ago oath to his honored Queen.

"Bondservant? Yes, I am a Bondservant. I am the Bondsman! The greatest of the great." He advanced, a step, one, the first since the fray began. "I have spilled the blood of so many werewolves. All of them dead, Fowler. All of them, at my feet. They fell before me." Another step. "You are little more than six summers a wolf. Your death is but one more." Another. "The Goddess' Curse you so covet, it brought you so much power." Another. "So many possibilities." Again. "You were drunk on it, waiting each moon for another chance."

"Stop! I'll kill him."

"And then what, wolf?" Another. "How many times have you bathed your flesh? Taking it out only when you knew your Master would allow it?" The last step. "Sometimes it would be an agony, not able to Turn. Knowing that your flesh was within reach, the moon full bodied and heady, a drink to quench like none other."

Fowler readied his blade, uncertain, afraid, but too proud, too desperate to run.

Peter watched, unable to do more, his breath hitching in his chest. His limbs numb. He was so cold.

But he watched, his only concession to his El, he watched. As long as he could, he made record, for El, for Diana, for Clinton, his village, even his Queen. He watched.

Neal advanced on Fowler. Step after step, unfaltering and unafraid, mad, and frighteningly calm for it, his voice low and even.

"And this, Fowler, is where you burn." Neal moved his hand, too fast to track, a sigil drawn in the air, a flash of white.

Above him, Fowler screamed. And screamed, and screamed.

Neal held a knife by the blade in his other hand, blooding it, activating the knife embedded in the wolf's leg. "This is the magic of the Queen's High Mage. His fury etched into each blade. He shoved the Earthstone into my heart, and with it, gave me this sigil... to burn you. To hurt you. To kill you. To hunt you down to the last. I am the Bondsman, and this is my Master's power!"

The wolf spasmed, jerking and pained, screaming. His blood poisoned with the magicked silver. Fowler's skin burning, the stench of it reaching down, down to Peter's numb body.

"Your Master is next." Neal threw the bloodied knife into the heart of Fowler with a meaty thunk.

The wolf fell, on fire, dead.

"Peter!" Hands were on him, rolling him unto his back. When had he closed his eyes?

"Peter... this is going to hurt. Scream if you have to, but be quick about it; the manorfolk will be on us soon."

He watched as Neal pulled some long, thin scrap of cloth from some hidden pocket, likely one of several. He wrapped his middle with it. Over and over, moving him, shifting the cold that exploded in pain with each new agitation. His groans turned to soft sobbing, his numb hands coming to weakly push against the other man. "Stop. Please."

"No." The white glow of his eyes intensified. All of Neal's focus on him, a spell without blood, a caster without wand or sacrifice, just his solid will.

Without warning, the cold stopped. His limbs, like pins and needles, awake and real. The fabric of him, from the inside to the out, stitched itself whole. In a span of breaths, he was healed and whole.

"Neal?"

The younger man's breathing was shallow and fast; he sat above him in the dark. "There are... two coming. We have to... go."

Neal didn't offer to help him upright. Instead, he tore open Fowler's clothing, the stench stronger than his stomach could take; Peter turned and retched. A skin, discolored and rotting was tied to the dead wolf's chest with a long cord wrapped about his torso. Neal removed the knife buried deep in the dead man's chest and used it to cut the thong.

He cleaned the knife using Fowler's splayed clothing and put it away, under his coat with the others.

The skin was wrapped carefully, Neal showed no sign of disgust. Rather, he displayed experience, with quick moves the skin was put away in Fowler's blooded coat.

Peter struggled to his feet, while Neal gathered his knifes from Fowler's leg and about the room. It would seem that for each time Fowler was overconfident, Neal wasn't; Neal had been playing. Forcing Fowler's attention, making him angry and stupid. Two more knives returned to their homes under his coat.

Peter managed to steady himself, made his way to the steps, slowly, dizzy. "Where's the fifth knife?"

"Didn't need it." He grabbed him under his elbow, rushing him. "Where's the nearest exit?" Neal's voice breathy and fast. His eyes brighter, his brow sweating... "Peter! Focus! Where's the exit?"

"This way..."

They made their way with as much haste as two exhausted men, one injured, the other freshly magicked, could muster. Servants descending the stairs just as they exited the manor house.

"The horses are still there, fetch them. Hurry." Neal all but shoving him. "Don't forget your evidence, Enforcer." Neal shoved the hidden skin into his hands.

With faltering steps and a brief stop to retch, again, he returned; the skin hidden away in his saddle bag. Neal was nowhere to be seen. He was about to call out, fearful what trouble the man had found in his absence. But he stepped out from the shadows and slowly mounted his horse.

They stayed out of the light from the manor and the farmhouse-turned-slaughter-house, careful to avoid any patrolling Guard.

Neal's breathing was loud and ragged. He was near dying, while his eyes glowed brighter than the long-set moon. "Neal, whatever magic you're using, stop it."

"Get us to the entry gate, Peter."

Once there, Neal guided Bugsy to the corner stone; a massive piece of earth, taller than a standing ork, faded with sun and covered in snow. He touched his hand to it, bent his head, and his will shone out, demanding, unforgiving, damning.

Neal removed his hand, leaning back heavily in his saddle, a tired smile of smug satisfaction. "Your father built this? It was well built."

Runes, old and hidden within the stone began to move, like snakes seeking warmth. "What?"

A wheeze. "Your father was an Arcane-for-hire, Peter. He truly did want better for you."

Before he could question, the ground shook, causing his mount to startle. Then the manor shook, and shook. It shattered. It fell. Loud, screaming inside, a chaos of crashing windows and stone pillars, all crumbling.

Peter did not know how long he stayed there, staring at the destruction. Where there once stood a sprawling manor, filled with people and life, in the briefest of span, now there was nothing. Nothing living.

Dust and death and stench rising into the lighting sky. A foul dawn, cruel, without any promise.

"And now..." A wheeze. "...Kramer."

Neal collapsed over his horse, bleeding from a hundred cuts.

Nothing after the gate's threshold stood. The weak sun's rays blossomed over the remains of the broken manor and farmhouse and trees and everything until the gate. The earth shattered and torn.

Peter stared, uncertain and scared at the devastation before him, his charm still active.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Winter's Abyss  
Author: robingal1  
Pairing/characters: P/E/N  
Spoilers: none  
Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves  
Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.  
Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

Neal was floating beneath the surface of some cold lake, cold but peaceful. He rose to the filtered light slowly, cautiously. When he broke away, consciousness accosted him like a slap. He gasped, deep lungfuls and wanting more.  
Then came the pain, the bursting light assaulting his eyes. He cried out, screamed against the sun.  
"Neal?"  
"Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!" He held himself still, tears flowing from his tightly shut eyes, hands blocking the too bright light.  
"Tell me, or I can't help." Peter. Peter was here, in this too loud place, too bright, too alive.  
"My eyes! It's too bright! Leave me alone, Peter." He curled further into himself. His stomach rebelling, and with no more warning, he retched violently. Over and over, bile and sour.  
When he was left panting and spent, Peter took him by the shoulders, guided him down. Wet snow beneath him, bird song above him, too loud.  
"Would water help?"  
Neal thought about it; measuring the merits of cooling his throat verses the risk of igniting his stomach again. "Best not."  
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were hungover."  
"Goddess, kill me." He rolled back into a ball of misery.  
Peter pressed a cool cloth against his eyes, and began wrapping his eyes away from the damned sun. A sigh, deep and heartfelt escaping him.  
"Is this why the windows were covered? Does earth magic use you up? Leave you like this?"  
He ignored the question entirely. "Where are we?"  
Peter sighed, loudly, everything too loud. "Just off the main road. A passing delivery stopped and left for help. She left a blanket to tear into bandages. You're going to need stitches."  
He hummed to show he was listening.  
"I'm not so cruel to ask, about what happened, about what I saw, but expect it soon."  
He groaned.  
"It was made record. Others will ask if I don't. If you want protection from them, you'll stay by me." Peter rubbed the nape of his neck, just above where Fowler's sword had glanced him. "Don't leave my side, Neal."  
He meant to respond, but the soothing relief Peter provided, the exhaustion, the unwillingness to face the too bright world, he slipped away, back under the cold lake.

o0o

"Mozzie?!" Peter stared. "What? Why? How!"  
He watched as Neal's friend from earlier climbed down from the ambulance. The enchanted coach swayed, its heated wheels causing steam where they met snow. "What are you doing here?"  
"Helping, obviously." Mozzie went to the rear of the open top coach, opening some compartment, rummaging for Goddess knew what. "How bad was it?" Not an easy question, the man didn't want to ask, but clearly had to.  
Peter watched as the smaller man knelt next to Neal. His actions were well practiced; he may have been squeamish at the blooded bandages, but his experience with mending was evident.  
Peter held the oblivious Neal, assisting the man as he quietly stitched the many wounds closed. "Bad. It was nothing I could have predicted. There was so much death, so much destruction..." Peter swallowed against the memories as they rose from deep inside him. He pushed the thoughts away, best not to think on it until he felt safe. Perhaps once he arrived home, wrapped in El's arms, with several beers in him.  
They worked in silence, stitching, cleaning, and wrapping in better bandages than the torn blanket from before. They carried him into the ambulance, settling him carefully on the heated rest. Next came a blanket, healing charms embroidered, thick, heavy, and smelling of herbs.  
"What about the horses?" Peter looked over at his Taurus, Bugsy by his side, both tethered to the tree that he and Neal had been resting under.  
"Leave them. They'll be cared for."  
"I want them back! Not 'cared for'. They will be returned. Say it!"  
A heavy sigh, followed by a short bow of the head. "I will see to it that your mounts are returned to you. Happy?"  
Peter grunted in reply as he placed his and Neal's saddle and bags in the coach, then sat next to the hurt man. Wrapping himself in the second blanket. Mozzie returned the supplies to the rear of the coach. "What about his eyes?" He asked as the other man ambled into the driver's seat, taking the reins.  
"The enchantments in the fabric will help faster than anything here."  
"Damn! He used it, earlier, healing me."  
Mozzie turned, not yet ordering the horses. A long stare, contemplating and sad. "Idiot. I gave it to him to..."  
"When? I've been with him- Ah. At the gambling house? You grabbed him, a faint. That was a well done plant, Guildsman. I wonder if even he knew until later." Despite the severity of everything, Peter found himself amused by the shorter man.  
"It was for him, Enforcer. He wouldn't have needed my continued services had he just used it on himself." He sounded bitter, hurt. He was placing blame for Neal's injuries on Peter.  
It should irritate him; but only a friend would come out at first light, steal an ambulance, and snap at anything for fear of losing a friend. This Mozzie may be odd, an outlaw, and clearly lacking in scruples, but loyal.  
The powerful horses at the front, trained to make haste and ignore the snow melting under their enchanted shod hooves, rushed forward.  
Peter buried himself deeper under his own blanket. Delayed shock was a real concern. He should probably stay warm and hydrate. No sooner had he thought, than Mozzie passed him a thermos filled with a rich coffee.  
"Goddess in glory! I've never tasted such a brew!"  
The man made a small laugh. "Of course you haven't, it's fresh from Queen June's pantry."  
He could feel his eyes widen with shock. He was drinking the most amazing treachery. He was reviling in the stolen goods from the Queen herself.  
He looked about the fast moving coach; few manorfolk were about on the streets, no one to witness his treason; he finished the brew.  
Within a surprisingly short span, they were outside the borders of Burke, heading toward the gates to leave Washington of the DC.  
"Mozzie. Perhaps this is where you should get off. You know where we're heading. You don't know what we'll be facing. You've done enough."  
Mozzie never turned from his seat. "You'd be surprised how far certain resources go."  
"Mozzie, we go to face a Makerwolf. A man I have known, when human, to be ruthlessly intelligent and uncompromising in his affairs. What Neal and I faced last night..." Goddess! Had it only been last night?  
His throat closed, his mind back in that dark cellar, breath coming too fast and not enough, his lungs burning, mind whirling.  
"Peter!" Mozzie, calling him back to the present. He was slight in his morals, but loyal.  
"I'm fine." His voice was faint. He tried again. "If you mean to accompany us, to give justice to Kramer, then let's be off."  
No more was said between them. They rode on, the sun weak in warmth, the low clouds too many. Peter watched the Queen's castle shrink smaller and smaller behind them.  
The Queen. Her own Lord was a werewolf, protected by her Civil Guard. Who else in the Royal Cabinet could be a part of this? How many Lords and Ladies, Governors, Judges, Officials of any sort had been Turned? Did the Queen know?  
Goddess and Hell! How long had it been since anyone had seen her? She had locked herself away when her High Mage Byron had died. No one had seen her in...  
The possibilities were too many for one Civil Enforcer. The Guildsman may have his resources, so too for the sleeping Bondservant, but three against a conspiracy?  
Peter tuned away from the main gate, as they departed the jewel of the Queendom. The pressure in his heart breaking him. He watched the trees pass, the clouds float, anything but where he had been; anything but where he was going.  
Peter was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been.  
The coach went on.

o0o

His eyes burned behind the bandage. The headache was expected, the nausea was usual, and the various cuts were normal. They would heal within a few nights, a slow but thorough healing.  
But it was clear how far from sane he had gone, how far he had willingly allowed himself. His sore body was testament to his hubris. He had never used the Earthstone for so long, never used it so fully. Perhaps Master Byron was right, all those years ago, anger makes for mistakes; mistakes make for graves.  
He deserved death. Some honest part of him, the shattered part that could not-would not- mourn and move on from his Kate, still craved it. He had been more than reckless, he had been foolish. Damned near lead Peter to his death.  
Mozzie's generosity and his better, calmer thinking had been what spared him, not Neal. The shame of it burned.  
He had been reckless, where Peter was honorable.  
But was Kate's life not worthy of vengeance? Would Peter's justice give him back his Kate?  
Would vengeance?  
His limbs were as useless as his eyes. Too debilitated to hold the weak and herbed tea to his lips, Peter held it for him, then feeding him bits of soft fruit. The chill night wind blew through the coach, causing him to sink lower into his blanket. "I miss Satchmo. He was warmer."  
They had stopped for the night. He didn't know if the stars were out, but he knew the moon was; full and powerful. Peter would likely be thinking on it all night, while thinking of his wife.  
His incredibly beautiful, smart, strong, passionate, fearsome...  
But for all those qualities and more, even with all of the village's Enforcers at her side, she was no match for Kramer and his unknown number of werewolves.  
Peter, honorable, brave, and strong, was feeding him; while his wife, his home, and all that he loved was being threatened. The shame returned, ten fold.  
"Peter, we should go. We can't stay."  
"The horses can't see, too dark; we'll leave at first light." His voice was tight and stressed. Rationality warring with his need.  
Neal didn't know what to say, only nodding.  
He was still on his perch in the ambulance. Mozzie had come for him, was escorting him to the York of Newness. Never one for outward displays of emotion, he simply pat his leg as he bedded down in the warmed foot well of the coach.  
Peter made him finish the tea, then left to tend to the horses. Keeping busy, too unsettled to sleep.  
"Mozzie?" He called out softly.  
"I'm tired. I've been driving your battered self all day, Neal. What?" The irritation was feigned, but the exhaustion wasn't.  
"Don't do this. Escort us, but then leave us.  
"You owe me nothing, friend. Whatever debts we had, whatever past we shared, I leave it here.  
"I have no plans to see another full moon; this fight will be my last. But nor do I have plans to see another friend die." Tears came, too weak to wipe them away, they escaped his bandaged eyes. "Please, Moz? Don't do this. Don't go to watch me die.  
"We parted long ago, a lifetime ago. I need to know that at least one person who loves me still lives. Give me that. Give me the peace to know my life has served at least one person."  
Mozzie's only answer was silence.  
Shame, fear, and hurt made for a poor lullaby on a cold and desperate night.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Winter's Abyss

Author: robingal1

Pairing/characters: P/E/N

Spoilers: none

Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves

Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.

Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

o0o

Elizabeth had given up sleeping. She had seen her lordly guest to his chamber, but sleep would not find her. Instead, she sat atop the highest spot on the mountaintop, gazing down at the still sleeping village.  
From her secret vantage, shown to her by Hughes; before he, his wife, and her mistress left for places unknown. She tried diligently to ease her chaotic mind.  
Worry plagued her. The full moon had spent all night casting shadows and fears. And morning was dawning with little hope for the renewal she so deeply sought.  
She had prayed to the Goddess, again and again; to intervene, to save her people from those that She Cursed to walk as beasts.  
Thus far, all her praying had accomplished was another sleepless night and a migraine.  
Sighing, again, she watched her home. The shoppes would open soon, the university would resume its lectures, and the farmers and miners would begin their days.  
So lost in her thoughts, she had not sensed the mountain spirit approach. He was sudden in his appearance, worried. Something was urgent, and he came to her, needing her.  
"Spirit? Satchmo? What is-" The demon hound lifted her by her hood, lifting her to her feet. With no words wasted, she followed his lead, running recklessly down the mountain. Past her home, with the werewolf inside; past the tents splayed on her and Peter's lawn, filled with Guard loyal to Kramer and not the Queen; past the shoppes and the Chapel and then past the village proper.  
Satchmo steered her steps in the feeble winter dawn's light, giving her strength through the earth; she never tired, and kept abreast with him. Her heart pounding, not with the exertion, but with the fear that something could so unsettle her mountain spirit.  
He grew smaller and dimmed as they fast approached the border stones. He stopped suddenly; El did the same.  
An ork came out from behind a tree, terrifying in his war paint. He raised his sword in threat, making it clear that he would not allow her to pass.  
"Blake? Is that you?"  
"Priestess?" He lowered his sword.  
"That's High... never mind. Send word to your camp, the spirit and I must pass." She made it very evident that this was an order; and it would be followed.  
Within a fleeting span they were off, passing trees and hidden orks, until they arrived at the border stones, marking the end of the mountain and the beginning of the valley.  
She looked over to see Satchmo's tiny ears straining to hear.  
El left the spirit, entering the valley, Satchmo whining behind her.  
She took some few steps more, but only the wind in the trees greeting her.  
Looking back at Satchmo, his gold glow faint, she saw his face. He was grinning, whining as a hound would for his master to come home, his tail slowly wagging.  
The realization struck her. Peter! Goddess! Her husband, home!  
Horses and carriage sounded in the distance. Then, a bend in the valley revealed an ambulance rushing, six horses racing toward her.  
She found herself afraid. Ambulances were a common sight, rushing to the Sacred Springs for healing; was Peter in need? Was he hurt?  
She rushed to meet the coach alongside the road, careful not to be trampled by the speeding horses. The driver, a small man dressed in exotic clothing, unlike any medic she had ever met, saw her and slowed the wagon, then stopped it.  
"El? El! Queen's Tit! El!" Peter, her husband, her beautiful love, rushed down from the coach, his arms tightened around her. She held him. She wrapped herself around him and shouted in joy.

o0o

Peter held his wife. He worshiped her scent, the weight of her in his arms, and the precious love, powerful love, vast love that could only come from her. The unique being of El, in his arms, alive, whole, and perfectly imperfect.  
"Peter?" She called him out of his reverie. "Are you alright? Did you get the fleece? Are the Royal Guard coming?"  
He held her some while more before answering. "No, love. There is a greater danger than I could have ever predicted. El..." His throat closed, leaving him dry and withered.  
She looked at him, eyes seeing the fear that he couldn't voice. She stepped away, held his hand, and gave him a span to collect himself, but not letting go.  
Had it been only days since his departure? The loss of her by his side was too raw in the face of such a revelation as what he'd witnessed. What he had made record.  
"We need to find someplace, away from the village, away from Kramer and his Guard. I need to somehow get word to my team. I need to-"  
"Love, come. Satchmo is going to tear down his mountain if you don't greet him. We will see to Neal and your friend in the coach. And then we will take each step as it reveals itself." She moved, pulling him with her, up to the coach. "Who are you, sir driver?"  
"You may call me Mozzie. And I think the fewer questions asked, the fewer lies told, High Priestess." The shorter man smiled, turned, and drove the horses forward.  
She sat, pleased with the heated seats. "He's a bit strange." She smiled as she said it. Like a cat with a new toy, a prey to treasure before eating.  
"He's a friend of Neal's. I know he's ThievesGuild, but more than that..."  
She began assessing the blindfolded sleeping man. "He has lost blood, Peter. And there is a deep puncture wound at his heart."  
Peter grimaced. He didn't know how much to say in front of the Guildsman. He and Neal seemed close, but a Guildsman is never a trustworthy friend, only an expedient one.  
They crossed the border stones and the sudden addition of a wagging, excited, energetic mountain spirit took all of his attention. The demon hound was enthusiastically licking and whining. His smaller, faded body dancing on his lap.  
"El! El! There's a mountain spirit on my lap. Am I dying? El?"  
She laughed, her eyes tearing. She reached out and pet the ancient beast atop his head and under his chin.  
Satchmo panted and licked her, leaving his tongue lolling.  
"It would seem that those he likes, he likes." She said with the same simplicity she always did, easily accepting miracles as expected results.  
He looked up at Mozzie, who seemed unable to comprehend what he was seeing. That made two of them.  
"High Priestess, where am I going?"  
The mountain spirit decided for them. A rumble from somewhere ahead, near the small spring-fed pond, too deep in the forest for any villager, too far from the village proper.  
"Peter! He made a trail for us." The wonder in her voice held more excitement than awe. He smiled. Goddess, but he loved this woman!  
Mozzie slowly, cautiously, drove the horses toward the lake. His hands shook, though not from the cold. The demon hound was often subtle in his dominion over his home, but when he chose to engage with the commonplace lives of others, it could humble the proudest of fools.  
They arrived in a short span. The lake was an undisturbed wonder. Small and deep, clear to the bottom, and filled with life. Water sprites danced atop the thin ice near the shore. The trees formed quietly behind them, masking their trail.  
Peter gasped, the honor Satchmo gave him, it took his breath.  
The coach stopped under an overhanging ledge, a stable made from the earth, just large enough for six horses and a stolen ambulance.  
Satchmo, now the size of large family hound, gave him one more swipe at the neck, then favored El with the same.  
Mozzie lept from the driver's bench before the coach had come to a complete stop. He immediately went about unhitching the horses, and gathering fire wood, and doing any number of things that kept him busy. Clearly, the mountain spirit, an eager and friendly one at that, was too unsettling.  
Satchmo went and sat near the lake shore, waiting. Peter went to assist El with Neal. They lowered him to the ground, undressed him, removed his bandages, undressed themselves, and carried him to the water.  
Satchmo sniffed the dying man head to foot, lingering over the man's bleeding heart. He licked the wound, as any hound would for it's packmate. Truly, this Earthstone was a favored magic for the mountain spirit. Yet another question to ask of the Master Neal.  
Together they lowered him into the water. It began glowing at the quiescence man's touch, the stones beneath their feet ignited with light and heat. The ice that floated near the shore melted. The air became steam around them.  
Mozzie gasped a shocked curse somewhere near the shore.  
El sat, cross legged, supporting Neal's head.  
Peter called the sprites to Neal. They came with frightening speed, swarming.  
El guided the water sprites to the stitched wounds, the air sprites to his lungs, and the earth sprites to this mind and soul.  
The water sprites melted the waxed threads that marred him; the air sprites entered him, expanding his chest; but the earth sprites only hovered nearby. They came, they wished to touch, but they instead floated near him, agitated.  
His wounds healed far faster than expected.  
"Peter, I have never seen this. Only Cursed beings cannot be touched by the earth sprites. But Neal is not Cursed, or Satchmo would not tolerate the touch of him.  
"And now, here his skin seems untouched, free from even the slightest scars. The sprites are doing little more than speeding along an already ongoing healing."  
Peter thought back, to all that he had seen Neal do, the magic he called at will, his sure knowledge of werewolves and their habits, and the death he left in his wake.  
"He is a Bondservant, a werewolf hunter. He fought a man at least six years Cursed. He used a speed too quick for even the wolf to see. He can cast without blood or circle. El, what he can do, what he's done... The man is strength and stealth; he's deadly.  
"El,I'm scared."

o0o


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Winter's Abyss

Author: robingal1

Pairing/characters: P/E/N

Spoilers: none

Warnings: cursing/blood/death/werewolves

Summary: AU where Neal is a man with a dark and tragic past, Peter is a Civil Enforcer, Elizabeth is a High Priestess, and Bugsy is a horse.

Author's note: Your choices define you. Therefore, in this AU, character choices will be different than those of the canon-verse, but the characteristics will remain. Constructive criticism highly welcomed.

Not mine, USA

Additional Author's Note: FFN ate chapter 12 and spat it back out mangled and deformed. I tried to edit it; hopefully i fixed it; but i'm still learning my way around this website. Sorry for any confusion. Thank you all for your kind words!

o0o

With a deep and pleased sigh, Elizabeth awoke from a wonderful slumber. She opened her eyes and saw her husband asleep in her arms. His eyes were shadowed, his brow furrowed. She pulled the charmed blanket up higher to them.

Worse though, was the ridiculous mustache growing along with a rather shabby beard. While vanity was too beneath a Follower's notice, that horrid thing would have to go.

She laughed to herself. In the face of all that they had discussed into the late day, her concern seemed completely undignified and silly.

Careful not to displace the blanket, she rose from the coach and left the horses and stone stable. They had discussed all that had occurred, then settled for what should have been a short nap in the spelled warmth of the ambulance. Neal had been asleep beside them, oblivious to everything. She wasn't certain what Mozzie had done in that time, but she was certain Satchmo likely restrained him from any folly.

As she left her love, she found Mozzie and an enlivened Neal speaking softly near the lake, warming themselves by a smokeless cooking fire. Satchmo curled at Neal's side, the opposite side from Mozzie, who seemed thoroughly content with the distance.

She looked closer; Neal seems much improved, thought his eyes still under wrap, and his skin pale, too much blood lost. Mozzie, leaning as Neal was, against the saddle and bags as they were laughing at some quiet joke, passed a warmed fish to his sightless friend. If either of them found Neal's blindness odd, neither behaved it. There was a sense of familiarity; they had done this before.

El wondered what sort of adventures a Bondservant and a Guildsman would find.

**She sat near the fire, pleasant and chipper. Until Peter awoke, they would not discuss the more serious matters before them. Not yet. Instead, she wanted to discover the workings of these two strange men, a puzzle to solve. **

**Mozzie set a fish, small and with little meat, likely from the lake beside her, on a roasting stick. He sounded entirely too proud; El couldn't help but smile. **

**Mozzie's smile was the farthest things from shy, but genuine all the same. **

**Neal, meanwhile was quiet, smiling too big. He was nervous. **

**He smiled wider. **

**Steps approached them, Satchmo leaving Neal in favor of the approaching Peter. **I need to inform my team. You can't see. And El needs to return; her absence likely already noticed.

**He held no malice in his voice. But it held firm against any gainsay; the truth often did. **

**It burned her that she should have to be the one to return, alone. To hear Diana's and convey secret messages. She was no petal atop a rose, wilting and frail. These werewolves had been here too long! She meant to end that. To end them. And yet, here she sat, dirty and cold, eating a small shore fish, being sent to do what was practical and wise. It was prudent that she should go, that she would quietly keep her Followers and her villagers safe, while Peter faced dangers without her. She yearned to stand alongside him, not before him. **

**His voice called her back from her troubled thoughts. He sat, completing the circle about the fire; Satchmo resting near his leg. He looked at none but her. She was the center of his thoughts. The gall of her role was still there, but his love, his respect, and his honor of her was a balm. **

**It came out a sigh. **

**Her love chuckled, holding her cheek in his warm hand. He kissed her then, a chaste and adoring flutter against her lips, the silly mustache tickling. **

**Peter kissed her again, teasing. **

**Her lips curved upward as she said it. **

**He turned away then, to address the blind Bondservant and the paranoid stranger. **These traitors will be there to speak against Neal. So too, will I be there, to speak of what I made record. Kramer will stand center with Neal. My Enforcers will surround the trial.

Other than the stench, is there any other way to determine who is Cursed?Satchmo could, once he knows the should Satchmo not be there, I can See good that does us him another bath in your holy spring; he'll be healed before we , come, I will see to your eyes.I admit, it will be nice to be aware of the 'holy dunking' this go , why have we never done this? I would be days blinded, but now... Goddess!Tell me, Bondsman, why are you blinded?My home is under attack by your enemies, Neal. Don't think yourself completely innocent in this.

**Neal struggled to rise. **You as well, Mozzie!This is my home! You fight for revenge, empty and thoughtlessly.

**She leaned in against him, a space from him. **

**Mozzie, his hand holding a sharp and oft used dagger, stood above her. The man was an impressive threat. For others. **

**Satchmo growled, deep and fierce behind the barefoot man. He dropped his blade immediately... but did not leave his friend's side. **

**Neal was statue still beneath her hands, hardly breathing. **

**A whispered plea. **

**The man sighed, then stiffened as the demon hound walked past, his head low and ears back, a move to better stalk the shorter man. **

**Neal took a breath, shaking. His head raised from the water, eyes opened. Blue and deeper blue, the summer sky. Glaring up at her, furious and scared, a fox caged and unbalanced. **

**The beauty of him was nearly her undoing, but the anger, the madness in him only strengthened her resolve. **

**He swallowed, blinked. In a small and sincere voice. **

**She let him up. **

**Mozzie, risking Satchmo, passed the wet man his shirt. And left them at the shore, uncomfortable, and for some reason, horribly and terribly sad. **

**Neal watched him go, solemn and mournful, then turned to her. **Meanwhile, I have been exploiting the jewel's power since the night I left the Saint of Louis. My body can't handle the stress.

**o0o**


End file.
